February 16, 2019

What is real, and what is fiction?

I just finished reading A Discovery of Witches, the first novel in a trilogy by USC history professor Deborah Harkness. Set in contemporary England, France, and New York, the well written story features positive and negative versions of vampires, witches, daemons, and magic in a modern world where most beings are human. It’s not the kind of book I usually read, but I read a good review of it somewhere and sure enough, it’s entertaining, escapist, yet grounded in history and science.

I’ve met self-described witches before, though they have no magical powers. I don’t believe in vampires or daemons. But beliefs that may seem outlandish to you or me are entirely credible to millions and even billions of people. Many Christians and Muslims believe in devils and a god who hates gay people. Other people think that climate change is a hoax, or that trickle down economics will lead to prosperity for all. Politics can be a surreal mixture of competing interpretations of reality.

I respect science because it’s based upon experimentation and observation. Yet some scientists can be narrow-minded and dogmatic in their beliefs. And my sense of truth tells me that there is way more to life than science has been able to discover. Or to quote Prince Hamlet, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

My Irish ancestors were delightfully creative when it came to imagining alternate realities. Often based upon superstition or fear as much as wonder and mystery, Irish fairies are not of the Tinkerbell variety. From the cranky Leprechaun (shoemaker) and trickster Far Darrig (Red Man) to the scary Banshee (female herald of death) or Dullahan (headless horseman) to shapeshifters and the sociable trooping fairies, they are said to be the keepers of Tir na nOg (Land of Eternal Youth). I’ve written about three of these magical creatures myself (see the Irish children’s stories tab at the top of this page). Even today, the Irish still protect raths (fairy forts) and fairy trees around their island. They may not believe in fairies anymore, but they respect what they do not know. That’s why in olden times they did not call them by their proper name, Daoine Sidhe (Fairy People), but rather referred to them by honorific titles: the Gentry, or sometimes the Daoine Maithe (the Good People).

Do I believe in life after death? Definitely. Souls? For sure. Heaven? Yep. Hell and devils? Hell no. Angels and the Good People? Maybe. I think that a positive attitude and appreciation are forms of magic, and that one can conjure good fortune by intending to do so through love and kindness.

What is real, and what is fiction, to you?

February 13, 2019

I woke up with two songs in my head this morning. But only one of them is still haunting me.

The first song that came to me was a song we all know:

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily,  merrily, life is but a dream. 

It’s a song about not taking life too seriously. When I went to bed last night I had three things that were bothering me, and this song could be a message from some level of my consciousness reminding me to lighten up.

But then, as I lay in bed on this rainy day off from work, another song occurred to me, one not so cheerful as the first. Any Day Now is a song that I recently rediscovered, a song written by Burt Bacharach and Bob Hilliard in 1962. Many artists have recorded it, including Elvis Presley and Ronnie Milsap, but my favorite version is the original by Chuck Jackson:

Any day now I will hear you say, “Goodbye my love,” and you’ll be on your way. Then my wild beautiful bird, you will have flown, oh, any day now I’ll be all alone, whoa.

It’s a song about the fear of losing a lover, and while it’s beautifully performed on keyboard by Bacharach and vocally by Jackson in a 1965 video (google Any Day Now Chuck Jackson youtube), it manages to be both upbeat and depressing at the same time.

I’m not sure why this song popped into my head when it did. Maybe because it’s a rainy, gloomy day. But it stirred up memories of my last girlfriend, a beautiful bird who flew away after a brief romance two and a half years ago. Listening to Any Day Now allows me to indulge briefly in self pity: Boo hoo hoo, poor me, she done gone and left me. Thanks a lot, Chuck. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, but I guess it’s OK every once in a while. Singing the blues is good therapy sometimes. I just don’t want to get stuck there.

Besides, I choose to believe that even loss can be a good teacher, though it certainly doesn’t feel that way at the time. Part of me still feels sad at the loss of that last relationship, maybe because I had known her since junior high school, which also happens to be when I first heard Any Day Now. And maybe that’s why that song is still haunting me now. But I trust that my higher power is leading me on the right path and that my ex-girlfriend’s inner being is guiding her in the right direction too. Well, OK, maybe her inner being screwed up by leaving me, but who said our intuition is perfect?

I’d rather row my boat gently and merrily than row while bemoaning my fate. But for today, Any Day Now is my theme song. Do check it out on youtube. Chuck Jackson is elegant and touching, although the 1965-era lighting on his black skin isn’t what it should be.

For the rest of my days, Row row row your boat is my song of choice. And merry is my path of choice in this dream life.

February 9, 2019

Two days ago I was in the mountainside forest home of a composer, discussing American history. Yesterday I was in a small apartment in a public housing project talking about the differences between Mexican and American cultures. Two interesting families, good people all, living 20 minutes apart yet inhabiting very different realities.

I can’t reveal the names of the people I met or their two communities for reasons of confidentiality. In my capacity as a bilingual field interviewer for a social science research company, I meet all kinds of people in the course of conducting national surveys. What I can say is that I work mostly in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I knock on a lot of doors in wealthy, middle class, and poor neighborhoods.

“Ryan,” the middle aged white composer and his mixed race professor wife, are creative and accomplished professionals, world travelers, and by all appearances at least are living happy, fulfilled lives in a beautiful, upscale community.

“Eduardo” was shot and paralyzed on the streets of a big Mexican city. Now confined to a wheelchair and a legal immigrant, he lives with his loving and supportive family in a county-subsidized apartment building in an unpleasant neighborhood in a nearby city. While Eduardo was answering questions on my laptop, I hung out with his brother “Maurilio,” who helped me gain an appreciation of the lives that his family is living.

Eduardo, Maurilio and their mother live together in the apartment, and Eduardo has an affectionate girlfriend who was there during my visit. Maurilio’s job supports the family while Eduardo receives food stamps, subsidized (but not free) housing, and free health care through Medi-Cal (Medicaid). But there are other family members who live nearby, and they are all close and help each other. Maurilio said that unlike his white friends, he can’t imagine going for more than a week without seeing his other siblings and extended family members. They are his best friends. When I mentioned that white people tend to be more independent of their families, he laughed and pantomimed white parents kicking their kids out of the nest.

In my family, we love each other, but wouldn’t want to live under the same roof again. If I became disabled, my family would be helpful, but they would never let me live with them – I’d have to have a caregiver or live in a home for the disabled. In American culture we’ve lost to varying degrees the close family bonds that the Mexicans still have.

But Maurilio stated that his family is really glad that they’re in the Bay Area. In Mexico there is so much corruption at all levels of society. He mentioned that the guy who shot Eduardo got out of jail after a couple years, and the lawyers and hospital they used took their money but did nothing for them. Drunk drivers routinely bribe cops, meaning that drunks can drive with impunity, endangering everyone else. Maurilio added, “Just try bribing an American cop and see what happens,” and made a motion of his throat being cut.

Life in the housing project is less than ideal. They had cockroaches recently, but the management took care of the problem. Their black neighbors are noisy and don’t respect designated parking spaces, but Maurilio and Eduardo have learned to be flexible and communicate with their neighbors whenever a problem arises, so they get along more or less. The police get called often to the project, but so far Eduardo and family haven’t been affected by the crime.

Which life would I rather lead – Ryan’s, or Eduardo’s? The former, of course. Ryan and his wife enjoy abundance, beauty, and an easier lifestyle. But other than his paralysis, I don’t feel sorry for Eduardo or his family. They are better off now than they were in Mexico, and they are grateful for what they have and for each other. Ryan and his wife are the haves, and Eduardo and family are the have nots, but even the have nots have love.

February 4, 2019

What would happen if we were to accept all the social and personal changes that we don’t like?

I’m not happy about population growth, traffic, the proliferation of guns in our culture, the spread of nuclear weapons, racial tensions, climate change, or war. But so what? Is my agonizing about those issues helping to solve the problems?

I appreciate the opportunity to live in a democracy where people are free to express their opinions or ideas. But problem solving is one thing; ranting and fretting are horses of a different color. There’s too much anger and fear being expressed in the public sphere. And sometimes there’s too much anger and fear being felt within me.

So what if I were to accept, for example, climate change, rather than resisting it? The world would continue to get warmer, whether I liked it or not, but at least I wouldn’t suffer while it’s gradually heating up. Sure, I would continue to recycle, conserve energy, and vote for candidates who agree to enact policies to reduce greenhouse gases. But at least I would be free to enjoy whatever time I have left on this planet without despairing about its future.

What if, in the grand scheme of things, it’s OK for the human race to die out, for elephants and tigers and whales to become extinct, for coral reefs to disappear? What if change, and loss, are OK? And even if change and loss are not OK, what if we accept them with grace and compassion?

Many years ago I was diligent in keeping a dream journal, and was pleasantly surprised by the creativity of my imagination while asleep. One dream I remember not for its narrative, but for its message. It featured two high school classmates of mine whose last names were Fine and DeKay. I puzzled over why those two girls had been selected by my unconscious mind to be in the dream story. Then it hit me: decay is fine. In other words, don’t worry, be happy. Then, as now, I had a tendency to carry the world’s problems on my shoulders, and my unconscious mind was telling me to relax and lighten up. I don’t need to control or fix the world. And maybe it isn’t broken. Maybe everything is Fine the way it is.

In high school I kept the following quote on my desk:

There are only two things to worry about: either you are well or you are sick. If you are well, then there is nothing to worry about. If you are sick, then there are only two things to worry about: either you will get better, or you will die. If you get better, then there is nothing to worry about. If you die, then there are only two things to worry about: either you will go to heaven, or you will go to hell. If you go to heaven, then there is nothing to worry about. If you go to hell, you’ll be so damn busy shaking hands with friends, you won’t have time to worry!

What if we were to dread less, and laugh more? I intend to find out.

February 2, 2019

When is it appropriate to forgive someone? Should a person be branded for a lifetime for youthful mistakes?

These are a couple of the questions that have occurred to me over the last two days as I’ve read about a current political controversy. Virginia Governor Ralph Northam is being pressured to resign after admitting to one and possibly two incidents of appearing in blackface in 1984, when he was about 25 years old. One occasion happened at a dance contest, and another was a photo in his medical school yearbook.

Governor Northam has apologized for the offensive events. Should he resign? I don’t know, but he will almost certainly have to do so. Yet an important question needs to be asked: Has he changed his racial insensitivity in the last 35 years? By all accounts a progressive Democrat on civil rights matters, he has indeed changed. But in the current political climate, it may not matter.

If the governor had committed these acts a year ago, or even five years ago, I would say that he has to go. But 35 years ago? Can we realistically expect politicians, and each other, to be so perfect all of the time? Are we not allowed to outgrow our youthful indiscretions, or even our mature adult mistakes?

It’s not my place to forgive Northam. I’ll leave that for African Americans to decide, as they are the ones who would have felt any pain from his blackface stereotypes.

I myself am not always so forgiving. I have held my share of grudges, although I do seem to let them go eventually. One reason I try to forgive others is that I’m painfully aware of my own insensitivities to others on occasion (see my January 24 blog post about Barbara). Another reason is that I simply feel better when I let go of anger, bitterness, or resentment. I don’t know whether I’d be able to forgive someone who murdered a family member or close friend. I hope so, but I just don’t know, and I hope I never have to find out.

When I was in high school I was bullied my entire sophomore year by Bob, a guy who was a year older and bigger than me. He abused me physically, psychologically, and emotionally. I hated him, and fantasized about killing him. I even thought about bringing a knife to school to stab him (this was well before anyone thought of bringing guns to school). I never told anyone about the abuse, but I never forgot it either. Many years later I decided to forgive him. I reasoned that he was 16 at the time, and just a stupid kid, so I should let go of my hate and heal myself and move on.

Then, at my 45th high school reunion, Bob showed up. He wasn’t in our class, but came because he had friends who were. I debated whether or not to speak to him, let alone confront him about his past misdeeds. What if he got defensive, or continued with his past ridicule of me? Would I get angry and bitter all over again? Would this just reopen old wounds?

I decided to face my past. I asked him if we could speak privately. Then I calmly reminded him of what had transpired between us 45 years ago. To my surprise and disappointment, he didn’t remember a school year’s worth of bullying! But to his credit, he listened carefully, and then apologized profusely and sincerely for having been such a jerk. I told him that I had forgiven him long ago, but even so it was healing to hear him take responsibility for all the suffering he had caused me. And it was healing for me to risk an ugly encounter in order to stand up for my 15 year old self.

I don’t believe that there is always justice in a given lifetime. But I do believe that, over many lifetimes, what goes around comes around. And if I can practice forgiveness now, maybe I can earn the right to be forgiven for my transgressions. Even if others don’t forgive me, maybe I can learn to forgive myself.

January 30, 2019

When I told my 87 year old mother yesterday that I had just come back from a funeral that I had attended because I thought it would be a good party, she was scandalized. “You’re supposed to go to funerals to pray for the person who died,” she gently chided me, “not to have a good time.”

I explained that there were people there who I hadn’t seen in decades, and I wanted to reconnect with them. Besides, the deceased person wouldn’t mind what my motives were; he wouldn’t know or care why I was there. And his ex-wife, sister, and two adult sons appreciated my supportive presence. So there, Mom! She grudgingly admitted that as long as I was comforting his family, it was OK for me to enjoy myself at the event.

George had died unexpectedly at 72, and for his sons especially it was a sudden loss and a time of grief. I had known George for almost half a century, but hadn’t seen him in about five years and wasn’t a close friend. So it was easier for me to be detached, whereas his family understandably was still getting over the shock of his sudden death of an apparent heart attack.

The religious rites were interesting. George had been raised Catholic, then was a Nichiren Buddhist in the 1970’s when I first met him, then he became an Orthodox Christian in the last years of his life. The service was in the domed St Seraphim Eastern Orthodox church in Santa Rosa, CA. The building features beautiful, brightly colored frescoes of Jesus, Mary, and various saints. Most of the service was sung, by the priests, a choir, and occasionally the congregants. There were candles everywhere, and each of us held one as well. The priests frequently waved an incense burner over the flower-bedecked casket. In other words, lots of rituals. Had it been a Nichiren Buddhist memorial service, there would have been no candles, singing, or saints, but there would have been chanting and the vibe would have been more upbeat.

After the service five of us bad Buddhist boys played hooky from the cemetery burial and sneaked away to a nearby Starbucks to catch up with each other. Then we high-tailed it back to the church just in time for lunch.

     I don’t know whether George was a very religious Christian at the end, but as our mutual Buddhist buddy Joseph noted, he had found at St Seraphim’s a community of people he loved and who loved him. And that’s what counts, not which denomination or religious tradition one follows. Especially now, as the world seems ever more unstable, it’s good to be connected to our fellow human beings in as many ways as we can.

At lunch I swapped youthful Buddhist war stories with friends Marilyn, Bonny, and Joseph. I hadn’t seen the two women in decades, and it was so gratifying to see them healthy and doing well. They were the reason I was there, not George, though I wished George bon voyage on his ongoing journey. Heart to heart dialogue – it doesn’t get any better than that. I even did an Irish jig for Marilyn. George would have laughed. Come to think of it, maybe he did.

My father insisted that his memorial event be a good time for all, and I have stated that same desire in my own will. My farewell will be a fun party, and you are invited. Only trouble is, I don’t have a date yet. Might not happen for another 25 years. Check back with me in 2044. And if I’m broke when I die, then it will be a potluck.

January 28, 2019

Yesterday I had coffee with my cousin Mary in Lafayette, the Bay Area town where we grew up but where neither of us can afford to live anymore. We lamented the gentrification and the appalling traffic, even as we acknowledged that the increased wealth has led to more attractive city design and landscaping and a greater number of good restaurants. Our laid back small town has become part of the rapid urbanization of the Bay Area, so partly for that reason we both escaped to more rural communities.

I remember in the 1960’s when the population of the U.S. reached 200 million. Now it’s about 328 million, and growing fast. This has led in California and elsewhere to a loss of open space and farmland, more crowded schools, terrible traffic, and a housing shortage with a resultant huge increase in housing costs. And what is driving this dramatic population increase? Immigration.

In 1965, when I was 13, I was pleased that the U.S. government changed its immigration policy to allow greater numbers of immigrants from non-European countries. I wanted to see a more diverse population, especially in our all white town. Mission accomplished. But what I and the government didn’t foresee was the large number of family members who would follow the initial immigrants, and the high birth rates of these immigrant families. This has led to faster demographic change than anticipated by the government or the public, and a more crowded infrastructure. It’s the old saying, “Be careful of what you wish for; you might get it.”

I have read, in the New York Times and elsewhere, people arguing for open borders, saying that it would be good for the economy and that we need a much larger population to compete with countries such as China and India. Really? Yes, a U.S. population of 500 million or 1 billion would create a bigger economy, but at what cost to the quality of life? I’ve been to Hong Kong and India, and I wouldn’t want to live in such congested conditions. And I’m no longer convinced that the human race has evolved to the point that very diverse peoples can live together in close quarters harmoniously. Maybe someday, but not yet.

At the same time, the United States and the planet are changing at an ever increasing pace, whether I like it or not. And in all honesty, while I welcome some of the changes, I don’t like many of them. Yet there’s little that I can do to stop the changing world, other than voting and writing. So maybe I would be wise to make peace with what is happening, and let go of my resistance to what is. Change what I can, and accept the rest. A tough balancing act, but necessary if I am to keep any semblance of inner harmony.

I won’t vote for any candidate who advocates open borders. But whatever does or does not happen with immigration and population policy, I trust that in the long run the planet will be just fine. And I intend to enjoy and appreciate Lafayette and Planet Earth just the way they are now.

January 24, 2019

When I was very young, I knew a girl named Barbara. I wasn’t always nice to her, and I’ve regretted that ever since.

We grew up in a suburb east of San Francisco, where we were classmates from kindergarten through third grade. Walnut Creek in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s was an all white, middle class town, and our elementary school reflected those demographics. The only exception, to my knowledge, was Barbara. She was white like the rest of us, but I gradually came to realize that her family was poor, and that she was the only poor kid at school. I don’t remember noticing the holes in her clothes in kindergarten, but by third grade I definitely remember her shabby appearance.

There was also something different about her personality. She didn’t seem very bright, and she had poor social skills and an odd laugh. Needless to say, kids teased her, and she gamely played along, trying to fit in. We pretended that she had “cooties,” and would have her chase us to tag someone with her cooties. I don’t recall anyone expressing overt hostility toward her, but we felt superior to her and she must have been well aware of our condescension.

But even at an early age I felt guilty about being a part of the group needling. So I made a point of being pleasant to her in my one-on-one interactions with her. Unfortunately I would revert to razzing her whenever I was part of a group.

At the end of third grade my family moved to nearby Lafayette, and I never saw Barbara again. But I never forgot her.

Recently I googled her, but found nothing. In the last year I reconnected with two of our classmates, and when I inquired after her, both of them remembered Barbara and agreed that we had been less than compassionate with her. But they didn’t know what became of her after elementary school. I wanted to find her so that I could say hello, and apologize for my past behavior. No such luck.

I’ve been thinking of Barbara lately because there’s a woman in one of my social circles who reminds me of her in some ways. This woman – I’ll call her Susan – annoys me at times because of her lack of social skills. Barbara didn’t irritate me; I bothered her. But Susan and Barbara seem to share the ability to attract negative attention. At first I grew increasingly resentful of Susan as she behaved in ways that antagonized me. Then a light bulb flashed on: Susan is unfortunate, as was Barbara, and so she deserves my empathy, not my enmity. In a way, Susan is Barbara, so if I can’t redeem myself to Barbara for my past lack of kindness toward her, then at least I can redeem myself now by being charitable toward Susan.

So until recently I had a yellow post-it note upon which I had written: Susan = Barbara. I would put this note on my calendar on any day where I thought I might encounter Susan. By summoning the memory of Barbara, it usually (but not always) softened my antipathy toward Susan. I don’t use the post-it note anymore because I think I’ve internalized its message. Still, I need to be vigilant whenever my judgmental self rears its ugly head in Susan’s presence.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him.” He also said, “With malice toward none, with charity toward all.” I’m not sure how much I want to get to know Susan. But I owe it to Barbara to try.

January 20, 2019

When positive things or negative things happen to us, are they the result of good luck or bad luck? How much control, if any, do we have over the events of our lives?

Last night I had the good fortune to stumble across a YouTube video of a 2010 Oprah show celebrating the 45th anniversary of The Sound of Music movie. It was an emotional reunion of the cast members who portrayed the von Trapp family, including Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer, and the children (now adults). In addition to excerpts from the film, Oprah interviewed the actors about their experiences of being in the movie, and even had a clip of a young Julie Andrews singing Edelweiss with the real Maria von Trapp.

After watching the video, I scrolled down to read the comments. The vast majority were gushing expressions of appreciation of the film, the actors, and Oprah. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to read a few cutting remarks about Andrews (her hair), Plummer, and Winfrey. Even the “kids” were criticized for not having aged as gracefully as Andrews.

I was so elated after watching the show about one of my favorite movies that I dismissed the snarky comments as coming from cranks who probably criticize everything and everyone they encounter. But this morning I began to reflect upon the nature of people who have an appreciation of others, as well as those folks who tend to be critical. Of course we all have our likes and dislikes, our positive and negative opinions about whatever we come across in life. I certainly am capable of sarcastic and negative judgments of other human beings.

Still, it does seem that individuals develop certain tendencies over time, as we make conscious and unconscious choices about what to think, say, do, or feel. And those choices are usually motivated by fear or love. As those choices accumulate, they form a pattern, sometimes known as character or karma. And that pattern, those tendencies, that momentum, attracts similar energies, people, and experiences. Then we wonder why our lives turn out the way they do.

One of my favorite songs from The Sound of Music is a duet between Maria (Julie Andrews) and Captain von Trapp (Christopher Plummer). In the song Something Good, Maria and the Captain sing of their wonder at their good fortune at having met each other: 

Perhaps I had a wicked childhood, perhaps I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have had a moment of truth. For here you are, standing there, loving me, whether or not you should, so somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. Nothing comes from nothing,  nothing ever could, so somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. 

I do believe that good things happen for a reason, though that reason may be shrouded in mystery, at least to our uncomprehending eyes. But if good things happen for a reason, what about bad things? Again, I believe that life events are not random, and that there are no accidents. Yet if you ask me why a good thing or bad thing happens, the obvious answer is that I usually don’t know the specific reason. In some cases the cause and effect relationship is fairly clear: my dad’s lungs were damaged because he was a lifelong smoker. No mystery there.

But what about kind, loving people who are murdered or who die in car accidents or natural disasters? What about innocent children who are sexually assaulted, or people born with severe deformities or health challenges, or individuals or groups targeted because of their race or sexual orientation? Once again I would say that these events are not coincidences. But it’s not my place to judge others for their misfortunes, especially because I don’t have enough information to form an opinion. Fortune or misfortune may be the result of karma (cause and effect), but it could also be a deliberate choice by the soul to have a certain experience in order to gain understanding and compassion. Every soul has its own agenda for growth and for learning lessons. I’m too busy trying to understand and align with my own soul goals to figure out someone else’s motivations or karma.

All I know is that even if I had a “wicked, miserable past,” I want to have as many “moments of truth” as possible now. I intend to create my own good luck by doing, being, and living “something good” now.And when sometimes my life isn’t so good, I hope to remember to return to the sound of my own soul music.

January 17, 2019

I believe that spiritually, we are all one. I believe in the American political motto, E Pluribus Unum (out of many, one). And I believe that sometimes, we just can’t get along.

I just finished reading a remarkable book about a remote tribe in the Amazon jungle in Brazil. Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes by Daniel Everett, describes his life as a Christian missionary among the Piraha people. A skilled linguist, he grew to know and love these Indian hunter-gatherers over his three decades among them, so much so that he eventually concluded that their way of life and beliefs were superior to his own, leading him to become an atheist.

But while he remains a fervent admirer of the Piraha, he also acknowledges the dark side of their culture. “While the Pirahas are very tolerant and peaceful to one another, they can be violent in keeping others out of their land…tolerance toward a group of outsiders and coexistence with them does not mean long-term acceptance. The Apurinas (another tribe of Indians who had lived on Piraha land for 50 years) had believed that a lifetime among another people could overcome the differences in culture and society that separated them from this other people. They learned the deadly lesson that these barriers are nearly impossible to overcome, in spite of appearances over time – just as residents of the former Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and many other places have learned in the course of history.”

I’ve always appreciated my encounters with subcultures in this country, and I travel internationally for the same reason: to meet people who are different than me and see what I can learn from them. But I’m well aware of the cultural tensions that exists between different races, religions, and nationalities (see my travel pieces on the travel tab on my home page, about conflicts between Israelis and Palestinians, Hindus and Muslims in India, and Vietnamese and Chinese). And I’m well aware of the long term frictions in this country between American Indians, whites, blacks, Latinos, and Asians.

Sadly, there are people on both the political right and left who promote identity politics in order to advance their own race or agenda. The current president encourages white nationalism, and the Democrats often portray ethnic minorities as victims in order to get their votes. Both parties sometimes pander to the worst instincts in people for political gain.

But I don’t blame just the politicians and their parties. The reality is that, to varying degrees, we are all tribal. We humans are more comfortable with people like ourselves, whether we live in the Amazon, Europe, Rwanda, Vietnam, Israel, or the United States. I myself have belonged to several tribes in my lifetime: American, Catholic, Irish, Buddhist, Cal Bears, San Francisco 49er fans, hiking groups, theater companies, et al. Granted, my tribes aren’t that exclusive, or at least I don’t see them that way. But they are ways that I have used to differentiate myself from others, not for the sake of asserting any superiority, but rather for the sake of belonging and identity.

The problem is that we often mistake our temporary identities (gender, class, nationality, ethnicity, religion, political persuasion) for our true identities (inner being/essence/soul/buddha nature), and therefore we emphasize our differences rather than our commonalities. Assuming, that is, that you share my belief in multiple lifetimes. If you believe that this lifetime is all there is, as my father did and many of my friends do, then the ego-based identities are understandably more important to you.

In either case, in all honesty, looking at human history and human nature, I think that this delusional behavior of separateness will continue for a very long time to come on this planet. And that means that the bickering and strife will not end anytime soon. As I said in an earlier post, I’m a short term pessimist and a long term optimist. Eventually, I believe that we will transcend our tribal identities and remember our essential unity.

But in the meantime, go Bears!