February 19, 2022

Two nights ago I attended what I thought might be a serious lecture on politics and social issues. I spent the evening laughing at those issues instead.

Fran Lebowitz is an eccentric New York City writer and public speaker who came to nearby Santa Rosa as part of her national speaking tour. All I knew about her was what I had learned from googling her before deciding to get my ticket: she’s a lesbian who wears men’s suit coats; she’s a heavy smoker and an advocate for smoker’s rights; she was a New York City cab driver in the 1970’s; she’s a liberal Democrat but not a feminist; and she has a sardonic sense of humor.

I was delighted to discover that in spite of her serious opinions on a variety of subjects, the 71 year old is one of the funniest women I’ve ever seen. Yet she’s not a stand-up comic with prepared jokes – she was quick witted in an unscripted onstage conversation with a local interviewer and in her Q & A session with the audience of about 1,000 people at the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts.

Even if I could remember her wisecracks I couldn’t do them justice here, because my words cannot convey the perfect timing of her spontaneous quips. But I can say that her candor about her personal life, as well as her basic human decency, shone through the topics raised by her female interviewer and the audience.

Fran was not the flaming liberal that I expected. While she predictably deplored Donald Trump, she doesn’t like Bernie Sanders or Kamala Harris either, and she suggested that Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi should step aside for a younger generation of Democratic leaders. Yet she also said that while she likes Georgia politician Stacey Abrams, she feels that Abrams and former South Bend, Indiana mayor Pete Buttigieg are too inexperienced to be president. She joked that more people live in her Manhattan apartment building than live in South Bend. She admires the intelligence of singer Dolly Parton, a personal friend of hers, and commented half seriously that Parton would make a great president.

What mattered more to me than Fran’s opinions is her ability to see the absurdity in human nature and in political and social behavior. I didn’t agree with everything she said, but she made me laugh long and hard at her perceptive observations. And she doesn’t take herself too seriously – a good reminder for all of us to lighten up in these polarized times.

Another humorist who didn’t take himself too seriously was the self deprecating writer P.J. O’Rourke, who died this week at 74 of lung cancer, probably as a result of his smoking (Yes, I’m talkin’ to you, Fran). His death caught my attention because many years ago I read his 1988 book Holidays in Hell, in which he traveled the world visiting combat zones and other hellholes on a fun-finding mission. He looked for the humor or at least the irony in dangerous or unpleasant places such as Lebanon, El Salvador, Belfast, the Philippines, and the Gaza strip.

One of the strange places O’Rourke visited was Heritage USA, a born again Christian theme park in South Carolina. He commented that “Dorothy and I came to scoff – but went away converted. Unfortunately, we were converted to Satanism.”

A conservative Republican, O’Rourke voted for Hillary Clinton because he couldn’t stand Donald Trump, and he had no problem making fun of his own party: “The Democrats are the party that says that government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn’t work, and then they get elected and prove it.”

If Fran and P.J. have used laughter to cope with our crazy world, Lieutenant Gail Halvorsen responded to human foolishness with kindness. Halvorsen, a World War II era Air Force pilot, died this week at 101. He may have lived a long life in part because, as a Mormon, he was almost certainly a non smoker (Yes, Fran, I’m still talkin’ to you).

Halvorsen gained fame as the first “Candy Bomber” when, in 1948, he came up with the idea of using Air Force planes to drop tiny parachutes attached to little bags filled with candy for the children of West Berlin. Russian dictator Joseph Stalin had cut off land deliveries of food and medicine to communist-surrounded West Berlin, so President Harry Truman ordered the U.S. Air Force to carry out the Berlin Airlift to deliver those critical supplies to West Berliners.

At one point Lt. Halvorsen noticed some shabbily dressed German children standing outside a fence at his West Berlin Air Force base, and he gave them his last two sticks of chewing gum. When he saw how much they appreciated his little gesture, he promised them that he would use his transport plane to drop candies, chocolates, and chewing gum for them, in addition to the large bundles of food that he delivered for their families.

As Halvorsen later explained, “The airlift reminded me that the only way to fulfillment in life, real fulfillment, is to serve others,” Mr. Halvorsen told CNN on the Berlin airlift’s 40th anniversary. “I was taught that as a youth in my church, and I found when I flew day and night to serve a former enemy that my feelings of fulfillment and being worthwhile were the strongest that I’ve felt.” (from the New York Times, 2/17/22).

Check out the New York Times obituary of this American hero for more details on the beautiful story of the Candy Bomber at

I guess the moral of this essay is: If you can’t be funny, be kind.

Many thanks to Fran, P.J., and Lt. Halvorsen for brightening my day.

January 27, 2022

Should you feel guilty if your skin is white? Should you feel ashamed if your skin is black?

As a field interviewer for a social science research company, my job is to administer a government health questionnaire to a wide variety of people in their homes. Although the majority of the questions have to do with mental and physical health, we also ask about their income, their educational background, and other demographic information.

Two of the demographic questions have to do with ethnic identity. The first of the two asks, “Are you of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?” No one has any difficulty answering yes or no to that question. But then we ask, “What is your race?” The answer options are “White, Black or African American, American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Hawaiian or Pacific Islander.” And that race question confuses almost all of my Latino respondents.

After answering yes to the Hispanic/Latino/Spanish question, they don’t know where they fit in with the race question. Some of them will say “I’m Mexican” or “I’m Guatemalan” until I point out that those options are not available. So maybe half of them will choose “White” even though their skin may be dark brown, because to them that is the closest category among the five choices that they are given. The other half will look at me and say, “I don’t know which answer to choose.”

Last week a young man of Iranian heritage answered “Asian” as his race even though his skin is white, because Iran is in Asia.

A few days ago I interviewed a middle aged, middle class white woman, and when I asked her the race question she replied, “I’m white, with all the privilege and baggage that comes with that.” I wanted to ask her why she felt the need to apologize for her skin color, but my job requires that I remain neutral and just record the respondent’s answers, so I dutifully entered “White” into my laptop and didn’t pursue the matter with her.

But I did pursue the matter in my own mind. As regular readers of these blog essays may have noted, questions of identity in general and racial and cultural identity in particular have been of great interest to me since I was in high school in the 1960’s. This essay gives me another opportunity to explore the theme in greater detail.

We humans tend to be tribal, and so we often sort ourselves according to nationality, ethnicity, gender, class, religion, politics, or even sports team fans. Sometimes these demarcations can harden into rigid distinctions that ignore the many complexities and gray areas of our individual beliefs and personalities.

And that is why it’s understandable that my Latino respondents are perplexed by the race question. Racial categories can seem arbitrary if you are Latino or of mixed race or simply choose to see yourself as a human being who doesn’t fit into any government boxes. Even the term “people of color” is rejected by most Latino and Asian Americans, who prefer to identify with their specific culture or nationality rather than be lumped together with other non-white folks. And many Asian Americans are not comfortable with that term, since they see themselves as Chinese or Indian or Thai or whatever, and not Asian.

I don’t know if the white woman I interviewed really believes that there is something wrong with her racial identity, or whether she was just virtue signaling to let me know that she is above reproach because she acknowledges her supposed complicity in oppressing others as a result of the color of her skin. I’m sure she meant well, but her posturing came across as moral correctness run amok. I almost wanted to tell her to relax, take two aspirin, and get lots of bed rest.

Speaking of virtue signaling, I was initially dismayed to discover recently that the nearby town of Sebastopol had paid to have the political slogan Black Lives Matter painted in huge yellow letters on the sidewalk in the middle of the town square. The colorful street mural looks permanent, and I was as pleased to see it as I would have been had it been a Trumpian slogan; that is, not at all. I don’t want to be reminded of the politics of division, anger, and resentment every time I walk through the plaza. A temporary banner would have been OK, but a permanent political display in a public space alienates me from a sense of community solidarity, much as a Confederate statue or other such symbol or slogan can create an us versus them feeling that “my tribe or ideology is better than yours.”

On the other hand, a temporary BLM banner on the outside wall of the Sebastopol library was torn down and burned last week, and I don’t approve of that negative reaction any more than I like the new BLM banner with an upraised black fist that has replaced it. Anger begets more anger, and creates a backlash which itself is harmful.

I do not consider an upraised clenched fist to be a symbol of compassion or wisdom. The politics of anger, whether on the left or the right of the political spectrum, is polarizing. I’ve never had bumper stickers on my car, or political signs in front of my home, because I want to relate to and get along with all kinds of people.

I believe that most BLM supporters have good intentions. But for me that movement, at least after the police murder of George Floyd, engendered too much violence, rioting, vandalism, looting, hostility toward police, and animosity toward white people. Most of their protests then and now have been peaceful, but there’s still too much rage for that cause to change hearts and minds in the long term unless it can evolve in a more constructive direction.

I have long sympathized with the struggles of black people to be treated as equals in this or in any society. Even in Caribbean and African countries, being in the majority does not ensure that black people will be treated with respect. All too often black lives do not matter in Haiti, Ethiopia, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Congo, Sudan, Nigeria, or Rwanda, among others. Brazil, Cuba, Australia, and some of the European countries – in fact, any country that has a significant black population – also have a long way to go in helping their black residents to feel loved and appreciated. Violent encounters with police officers only make matters worse. But being a police officer is a dangerous, thankless job, especially in the U.S. where so many men are armed. We need to find a way to reduce police brutality and reduce black crime.

The reality is that relatively few black people are killed by police in this country. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, 93% of black men are killed by other black men, so if black lives really matter, then black men need to stop slaughtering each other and committing other crimes that attract police attention. It’s not realistic to expect cops to be social workers or therapists. Painting BLM slogans in predominantly white towns like Sebastopol may make white people feel virtuous, but the real work needs to be done in black communities. Government and legal and judicial systems can only do so much. Building strong supportive and nurturing two parent families, along with creating a culture that values education, can eventually overcome all kinds of inequality, prejudice, and poverty of spirit.

There is much to celebrate in African American culture, and their contributions to society in general have been significant. I especially appreciate black creativity in musical genres such as jazz, blues, rock and roll, doo wop, Motown, and country. The non violent civil rights movement has benefited all of us by allowing us as a people to make some progress toward our Declaration of Independence goal of “All men are created equal” and the Constitution’s aim of “A more perfect union,” not to mention Abraham Lincoln’s idea of “With malice toward none, with charity for all.”

To the extent that BLM is about love and respect for black people, I support it. But I do not support the angry, anti police, anti white energy that sometimes corrupts it. The guilt-tripping of white people such as my survey respondent who has been taught to believe that she should feel bad because of “white privilege and baggage” may be an effective short term strategy to accomplish BLM goals. But rather than bringing white people down, isn’t it better to uplift everyone?

I understand why the federal government asks racial demographic questions on our health survey. They want to measure similarities and differences in health behaviors and outcomes by comparing the health of various ethnic groups. But how do you measure the amount of love that individuals and families give to and receive from one another? How do you measure the respect and self esteem that are so important to a person’s happiness? Should a healthy black person feel guilty because they are better off than a disabled white person? Should an American of Korean heritage feel that they enjoy Asian privilege because they do better in school than a person from Honduras? Is it really necessary to assign roles of oppressor and victim to each person based on our assumptions about their race?

The reason I said earlier that I was “initially” dismayed by the BLM street mural is that I later learned that that mural and the library banners were displayed at the request of local high school activists. The Sebastopol city council was listening to a request from local teens. Although I still disapprove of divisive political and racial slogans in public spaces, my opposition softened a bit as I remembered how I too saw racial politics in simplistic good vs evil terms when I was in high school. I too was idealistic and opinionated about racial injustice, and I too wanted the powers that be to listen to us teens. So maybe I need to relax, take two aspirin, and get lots of bed rest.

Is there social injustice in this world? You bet there is. How much of it is caused by wounded people who lacked love in their childhood? Probably most of it. And is the solution then to have other wounded people project their pain onto others by angrily opposing such injustice? Probably not.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the late Vietnamese Buddhist monk, once gave a talk where he described how, during the Vietnam war, the American anti-war movement became so consumed with anger that their actions became counterproductive.

Where is the peace in being anti-war? Where is the love and tolerance in anti-racism?

As Thich Nhat Hanh said, “Anger can provide energy, but compassion comes from understanding. We belong to each other. The well being of this is the well being of that, and so we have to do things together. There is no evil side. Every side is our side.”

As for my race, I’m not really white. My skin color is closer to beige. So I’ll raise my beige fist and proclaim BLM – Beige Lives Matter! Beige Power! Just don’t call me a beigeist.

January 18, 2022

How can human society in general, and men in particular, channel male aggression in a positive direction? Strangely, that question came to me after I already had an answer.

A few days ago I awoke with the word “knighthood” in my consciousness. I don’t remember having a dream about knights, so I don’t know why that word occurred to me when it did. Yet there it was, an answer to a question I had not asked. Or maybe it’s a question I’ve been asking for a long time.

It’s pretty obvious that almost all of the violence on this planet is perpetrated by men. War, murder, rape, brutality, torture, slavery are almost exclusively male specialties. Yes, females too have their dark sides; women friends have told me that girls can be vicious bullies toward one another, and grown women can be cruel and cold hearted. But girls and women don’t seem to have the large scale of destructive effects on society that misdirected male energy has. So for now I’ll let my female readers ponder their gender’s shadow side while I consider a possible solution to toxic masculinity.

That solution just might be a modern version of knighthood.

I’m not suggesting a return to the jousting of the Middle Ages; our current iteration of armored bodies slamming into one another is called American football. And while I don’t like the violence of that sport, I must confess that a primitive part of my psyche enjoys rooting for our local football team, the San Francisco 49ers, in the current playoff games. So yes, sports can be one way of redirecting violent male impulses in such a way that only the well paid players get hurt.

But it’s not clear to me whether gladiator sports and video games release negative competitive energies vicariously or whether they unconsciously encourage gun violence, drunken road rage, abuse of women, etc. I guess I’d feel better about high school, college, and professional sports if they placed a greater emphasis on sportsmanship, fair play, and honoring opposing players and fans, rather than winning at all costs and denigrating their opponents and the other team’s supporters.

Most little boys grow up admiring sports heroes or wanting to be like superheroes such as Superman or Spiderman. I know I did. But consciously or not, we also want to look up to men who are not just physically strong but who have a nobility of spirit, a selflessness and courage to face life’s difficulties and help others to do the same.

European and Moorish knights were mostly just soldiers on horseback, but sometimes they aspired to uphold a code of chivalry that honored one’s duty to God, that offered respect and gallantry toward women, and that protected the weaker members of society. Like their knightly counterparts, Japanese samurai were also professional killers, but they too attempted to follow their honor code of bushido. And Don Quixote, a fictional character initially created by author Miguel de Cervantes to make fun of the romanticized versions of knighthood, ended up transcending his author’s intentions to become a lovable if unsuccessful yet heroic knight errant.

One of my favorite boyhood role models was Crazy Horse, an Oglala Lakota warrior who through his courage in battle and his generosity toward his people was granted the great honor of being one of four members of the Shirt Wearers Society. But the sacred shirt was not just a trophy. It was a symbol of great responsibility toward the community. As one of the old chiefs said when bestowing the special shirts upon Crazy Horse and his three comrades,

“Wear the shirts, my sons,” he said, “and be big-hearted men, always helping others, never thinking of yourselves. Look out for the poor, the widows and orphans and all those of little power; help them. Think no ill of others, nor see the ill they would do to you. Many dogs may come to lift the leg at your lodge, but look the other way, and do not let your heart carry the remembering. Do not give way to anger, even if relatives lie in blood before you. I know these things are hard to do, my sons, but we have chosen you as great-hearted. Do all these things gladly, and with a good face. Be generous and strong and brave in them, and if for all these things an enemy comes against you, go boldly forward, for it is better to lie a naked warrior in death than to be wrapped up well with a heart of water inside.” (Crazy Horse: The Strange Man of the Oglalas, by Mari Sandoz).

It is perfectly natural for boys and men to desire distinction, honor, and glory. But isn’t it better for all of us if we can achieve those desires through a chivalrous ethic of service to others? I have to believe, to hope, that communities the world over can support or create groups such as the Boy Scouts, the Peace Corps, and the equivalents of the Shirt Wearers Society, to guide young men into constructive uses of their ambition and their energy.

My friend Bruce does not desire distinction, honor, or glory, as far as I know. Instead, he practices a humble form of chivalry known in his Jewish tradition as tikkun olam: acts of kindness to repair the world. Bruce volunteers at homeless shelters, serving meals and talking with the residents, and he volunteers at a local food pantry, and he volunteers in a restorative justice program at San Quentin prison, and for 10 years he used part of his vacations to spend time helping kids from disadvantaged backgrounds who had AIDS.

Now that’s what I call knighthood.

Can you imagine a world full of Bruces, where boys and men compete to see who can help the most people? A world where boys and men have the courage to protect and defend the planet? A world where boys grow up to be men who appreciate women and treat them with great respect? A world where ambition leads to service?

Now I think I understand why I awoke with that one word on my mind.

January 4, 2022

I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I’ve ended up with some wonderful friends. And the crazier the world gets, the more I appreciate my friends and family.

When I was young I thought I could make the world a better place by going into politics and helping to steer California and the nation in a more enlightened direction. Eventually I realized that my desire for power and glory was just as self centered and corrupt as many of the politicians and business people whom I deplored. Now in the last quarter of my life it seems that I’m just along for the ride, carried along with everyone else in a sea current of our collective evolution. I do believe that the human race is evolving, if painfully and often unconsciously. So I might as well enjoy the ride, body surfing the waves of climate change, the pandemic, political turmoil, and economic uncertainty.

But it’s more fun to swim and surf with companions. So in the last few days I’ve taken advantage of some downtime before a wave of work crashes over me to spend time with a few of my friends in person, on the phone, or on Zoom. Navigating the waters of current events alone is sometimes depressing, but my buddies are helping me stay afloat by playfully splashing and frolicking and keeping me buoyant.

One thing my friends have in common is that they all make me laugh. And I love them for that, and for their good hearts, their wisdom, their loyalty, and their quirks. They keep me centered and emotionally honest.

Some of them know each other because many of us were Nichiren Buddhists in the 1970’s. Our idealism may have been shipwrecked on the shoals of reality, but sincerity, determination, and laughter have been our life preservers in troubled waters.

Jovial Joseph is down to earth and loves people. Montgomery is a musician with a passion for history. Diana is honest, unpretentious, and rescues big dogs. Phil is a reverent and irreverent ocean scientist and scuba diver committed to protecting the seas. Cris is a therapist and social worker who has worked with the homeless. Judy volunteers at San Quentin prison where she helps prisoners in a restorative justice program. Jim teaches yoga and adores his wife and animals. Rikki is a writer with a dedication to martial arts and her spiritual journey. My newest confidante Susan is a librarian, avid reader, and Francophile. And I’m proud to call all of them friends. I’m blessed with the best. And these are just the sidekicks that I’ve been able to talk to in the last few days. There are other buddies floating nearby who are just as terrific. I am a rich man indeed.

I can’t help but wonder how it is that I am so fortunate to enjoy the relationships that I have in my life. I’m grateful to my mom Maggie and my sisters Sally and Laura, as well as my dad Roy who is no longer with us, at least physically. What did I do to deserve them, and all my comrades? Celtic mysticism and Nichiren Buddhism offer a couple of possible clues.

The Nichiren term kenzoku-myo means mystic relationship or kindred spirit. And the term zenchishiki means a good friend who supports one’s spiritual journey. Together the terms suggest an unseen bond forged in prior lives or in-between lives. In other words, it’s no accident that the people in our lives are present for us in their current roles. Even difficult people are performing their assigned parts in the stage plays of our lives. This is not to say that everything is preordained; but karma and prior relationships may well draw us to one another through the law of attraction. Birds of a feather flock together.

This Buddhist idea of previous associations is corroborated at least theoretically by Celtic tradition. Here is the Irish poet John O’Donohue:

“Anam is the Irish word for ‘soul,’ and cara is the word for friend. In the anam cara friendship, you were joined in an ancient way with the friend of your soul. This was a bond that neither space nor time could damage. The friendship awakened an eternal echo in the hearts of friends; they entered into a circle of intimate belonging with each other.

“In everyone’s life there is great need for an anam cara, a soul friend. In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension…you can be as you really are…Where you are understood, you are at home.

“The beauty of being human is the capacity and desire for intimacy. Yet we know that even those who are most intimate remain strange to us.” (from Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong).

I don’t pretend to understand my friends completely. Even those who I’ve known for over half a century are mysterious strangers, just as there are parts of myself with which I am not fully acquainted. All I know is that in a time of great change and planetary upheaval, when the passing show of political and environmental and social drama sometimes feels overwhelming, the real story, that which endures beyond time and space, is love and friendship. And I’m so grateful to my friends for helping me to laugh at the absurdities of this world.

I’ll give John O’Donohue the final word:

“Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore, may the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.”

December 17, 2021

A few days ago one of my neighbors put a sign at the entrance to his driveway: THE OWNER OF THIS PROPERTY IS ARMED, along with an image of a revolver.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

I don’t know the man, although I’ve waved to him a couple of times as I’ve walked down the hill to the mailboxes. So I don’t know why he’s so fearful. The hill where we live is a rural, wooded, middle class white neighborhood with little or no crime. Maybe he or a family member or friend has been robbed at some point in their life. Or perhaps he’s simply allowed himself to be terrorized by reports of violence that have been hyped up by the news media.

I have no objection to any individual having a gun in their home for self defense. At least one of my family members and maybe a couple of my friends have pistols for that purpose. And although I have never had a desire to own a gun myself, I can imagine how I could conceivably be willing to acquire such a weapon if I lived in a dangerous area.

But it’s one thing to discreetly own a gun for self protection, and it’s quite another matter to own automatic weapons that are designed to kill large numbers of people, and then flaunt those guns or their images in order to intimidate your fellow citizens. I’m seeing more and more bumper stickers and decals on pickup trucks that seem to promote gun violence. One pickup I saw recently sported a sticker with two crossed machine guns backed by an American flag. Another pickup sticker cynically illustrated the child-friendly driving slogan Baby on Board with a photo of an automatic rifle beneath those words. And many states such as Texas that are dominated by right-wing zealots are passing legislation that allows anyone to carry guns on public sidewalks or in stores.

Civilized countries such as Japan, Australia, Canada, and the European nations don’t allow such anti-social bullying behavior, and so they severely restrict access to weapons of mass killing. But in the United States, where for many Americans guns are a religion more sacred and appealing than the teachings of Jesus, guns are a potent symbol of masculinity and freedom. It never fails to amaze me how many American men who claim to be Christians and “pro-life” are enthusiastic proponents of the death penalty and of propagating weapons of death. A couple of months ago in Utah I saw a man with a baseball cap that proclaimed “God, Guns, and Trump.” It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

Gun advocates, whipped into a frenzy by the self-serving National Rifle Association (NRA), claim that the U.S. Constitution guarantees their individual right to own and carry firearms. They proudly quote the Second Amendment to the Constitution, which says “The right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

But what they conveniently neglect to mention is that that phrase is only the second part of the sentence. The entire Second Amendment says “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” In other words, the framers of the Constitution were allowing the possession of arms for the common good, not for individual gunslingers. The key phrase is “well regulated militia.”

I’m no legal scholar, but it’s pretty obvious that our founders intended for us to be a civilized people, not a bunch of “every man for himself” gun-toting lunatics, and so they allowed the possession of weapons provided that the arms were used by organized groups of police, National Guard, and military. If they intended for us to be a lawless nation of gun nuts, they wouldn’t have specified “well regulated.”

Even so, the larger question is, what do we owe each other, as Americans and as human beings? Anything? Do we have any mutual obligations, any social solidarity, or are we just a collection of self-centered, frightened individuals?

We are currently enduring an epidemic of selfishness, whether it’s spiritually sick gun fanatics, or anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers, or climate change deniers who want to continue the status quo in order to avoid short term economic losses. We as a people are not as evolved as I hope we will one day be. Just as modern day Germans look back at their Nazi past with revulsion and shame, so too will we Americans someday be mortified as well as mystified by the mass psychosis of the gun cult. I’m a short term pessimist but a long term optimist. Too bad we seem to have to learn our lessons the hard way.

Maybe I should knock on the door of my neighbor who has the revolver sign on his driveway, and introduce myself and get acquainted. But if I did so, “howdy neighbor” might be my last words. I guess I’d just have to carry a bazooka along with my smile to his front door.

November 27, 2021

Lately I’ve had migrants on my mind.

At the border with Mexico, the U.S. Border Patrol has been overwhelmed in recent years by hundreds of thousands of people from Mexico, Central America, and other countries attempting to claim asylum. Last week, thousands of people from Iraq, Syria, and other Middle Eastern countries were encouraged by the dictator in Belarus to fly to his country and then try to sneak into the European Union via Poland. This week 27 migrants from the Middle East died while attempting to cross the English Channel from France. And a couple days ago I finished reading once again John Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath, about the poor white migrant farmworkers who came to California during the Great Depression.

I wish I could say that I’m always supportive of migrants, refugees, and other poor and oppressed people in this country and around the world, but the truth is that my feelings are mixed. Sure, I feel compassion for hungry, wretched people, and even for those who are not hungry and wretched but who just want a better life. But while tens or even hundreds of people on the move are not much of a disruptive influence in a society, thousands or millions of movers can be economically, socially, and politically destabilizing. And climate change is expected to greatly increase the exodus of poor people from Third World countries to the more developed societies.

Change can be scary, whether a person is a migrant or whether someone lives in a community with a large immigrant population. Mass migration has been disruptive and sometimes violent throughout human history, usually due to fear of the “other.” Migrants from Europe came to the Americas and slaughtered the native populations. But before the Europeans came, American Indian tribes warred upon each other over territory and food and water resources. And the September 11th hijackers were visitors from four Arab countries who came here to commit mass murder in the U.S.

So boundaries between nations, cultures, and individuals are understandable. However, territorial delineations are easier to transcend when the peoples share a common language, religion, or other cultural attribute. Middle Easterners are usually classified racially as Caucasian, but migrants from those countries were recently turned away from Lithuania, whereas other Caucasian migrants from next door Belarus are being accepted as political refugees. Why does Lithuania reject one group of white people and accept the other white group? The Middle Easterners are Muslim and mostly Arabic speaking, whereas the Belarusians are fellow European Christians who speak a similar Slavic language. So the Belarusians are easier to assimilate.

In Steinbeck’s historical fiction novel The Grapes of Wrath, the agricultural migrants from Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, and other states were white, but they were greeted with great suspicion and hostility by their fellow whites in California. The California ranchers, farmers, shopkeepers, bankers, and law enforcement saw the migrant farmworkers as a threat, using the derogatory term “Okie” to describe their fellow white Americans. The Californians worried that some of the 400,000 poor laborers might attempt to overthrow the local power structure and steal the wealth of the established landowners.

Steinbeck rightly felt great sympathy for the misery and suffering of the desperate people who were peacefully invading his native state. And The Grapes of Wrath is full of anger at the predatory bankers who helped force the Oklahoma farmers off of their own land, and anger at the cops and hired thugs who beat the migrants and burned down their shanty towns. At one point Tom Joad, a fugitive and protagonist in the novel, says that though he has to run from the police, “I’ll be ever’where – wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there.”

Powerful sentiments in defense of underdogs everywhere.

The title of the book comes from the Civil War song, The Battle Hymn of the Republic: “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord/He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.” That song, and Steinbeck’s book, are a call for justice, and possibly even a call for vengeance. Steinbeck, like other writers before him such as Charles Dickens, was outraged by the vast inequality between the haves and the have nots, where the rich enjoy luxury while the poor starve. Steinbeck fervently believed that as a human society, we have to help each other.

But how many millions of impoverished, sick people can a society absorb? How can the U.S. or any other country take care of the housing, job, educational, and health care needs of millions of immigrants when we can’t seem to care for the homeless and poor folks that we already have? I can understand the fear and resentment that Steinbeck’s Californians felt toward the outsiders who were pouring into their state.

Years after Steinbeck’s death in 1968, his widow, visiting Japan, asked if a local bookstore owner had any books written by her husband. He thought about it, and then said yes, he had The Angry Raisins.

You gotta love the Japanese.

The wrath of dried grapes is a fearful thing indeed.

November 7, 2021

I recently learned that a good friend of mine had been raped. My shock and anger were magnified when I discovered that the rapist was also a friend of mine. And hers.

The three of us were part of a tight-knit Buddhist community in the 1970’s when this incident occurred. But “Melinda” never told us what had happened to her because, like many women who have experienced sexual assault, she blamed herself and internalized the shame.

However, during the 2018 confirmation hearings for Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh it was disclosed that as a young man Kavanaugh had allegedly raped a woman. Those hearings caused Melinda to revisit her own trauma and to realize that she had done nothing to encourage her assailant “Thomas,” and in fact had resisted his violent assault. She then understood that she could let go of her self deprecation because it was Thomas whose behavior was reprehensible, not her.

I don’t normally dwell on criminal behavior or violence, let alone write about them, because such conduct disgusts and angers me, and I don’t want to focus on the negative side of life. For that reason, while I’m aware of the Me Too movement’s efforts to hold powerful men such as Kavanaugh, Harvey Weinstein, and Bill Cosby accountable for their sexual harassment of women, I usually skip over the more lurid details because I don’t want to revel in depravity. But when such an incident involves two valued friends, it hits close to home, and is more difficult to ignore.

I’m not a feminist, and am ambivalent about the Me Too movement. But I generally have no sympathy for rapists or child molesters.

The more I thought about Thomas and his violence and Buddhist hypocrisy, the more I felt that he had betrayed not only Melinda but me and all of us who counted him as a trusted friend.

In my mind I confronted him, saying “You phony jerk! You don’t understand even the basics of Buddhism: cause and effect, karma, right action/right sexuality, kindness, compassion. You think that masculinity means that you are entitled to take something without permission? That might makes right?” And so on.

Yes, we all have a shadow side, and yes, we’re all hypocrites at one time or another. But I just don’t understand toxic masculinity. I don’t understand rapists. Desire and fantasy are fine, as long as they are between consenting adults.

After stewing about this matter for a few days, it occurred to me that perhaps I could offer my services as a go-between to Melinda and Thomas with the thought that a sincere apology from Thomas and an acceptance of his responsibility for his actions might be healing for both of them. But Melinda wisely rejected my well-intentioned but naive meddling, saying that she has no animosity toward Thomas nor does she have any interest in revisiting the incident with him. She has moved on with her life.

I can’t say that I’m as forgiving as Melinda, at least not yet. I’m still getting high from my sanctimonious grandstanding about the sins of Thomas. But if I’m honest with myself I have to admit that my sense of moral superiority will be short lived, because life has a way of reminding us of our own shortcomings.

Besides, as the poet George Herbert said, “Living well is the best revenge.” Melinda is enjoying a wonderful life of laughter and love. Her resilience and her ability to let go of the past are allowing her to explore a greater sense of her self and the meaning of life. Thomas and I would do well to emulate her example.

October 18, 2021

Torrey, Utah

When I came to Utah I didn’t expect to write about sex or utopias. I came here to hike in the five national parks, and to explore the history and culture of a different state. So it just goes to show that you never know what you will or will not find when you leave the routines of home and travel into an alternate reality. And Utah ain’t California.

Zion National Park is one of the most beautiful places on the planet. For that reason it’s very crowded most of the year. One woman I met there compared it to Disneyland, in terms of the long lines of people waiting to get on the park shuttles and the mobs of hikers and families on the more popular trails.

Outside the visitor center an overweight middle-aged man stared at a bronze statue of a young 1930’s Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) worker and said, “Honey, look – a guy with no shirt on!” His equally portly wife came over and said disapprovingly, “And people have been touching him in inappropriate places!” Curious, I looked at the handsome bronze youth expecting to see a polished crotch, but instead only his nipples were rubbed to a golden color. Scandalous.

In a grocery store in the nearby town of Hurricane I saw a teenage boy, probably a Mormon, wearing a t-shirt that said, “Virginity Rocks!” That’s actually good advice for teens. Considering my recent exciting sex life, maybe I should echo the teen and have a t-shirt made that says “Celibacy Rocks!”

Given the high birthrate among Mormons, let’s hear two cheers for sexual repression!

Speaking of population growth, I was disappointed to see the huge increase in population in Hurricane and nearby St. George since I was last here in 1979. Some of the growth is probably due to prolific Mormon families, but most of it is caused by an influx of people from California and other states as well as immigrants from other countries. And in typical American pro-growth philosophy, where bigger is always better, the locals seem to welcome the change. My AirBnB host Keith, a lifelong resident of Hurricane, gave me a personal tour of his farming community that is rapidly transforming itself into a small city.

As Keith drove me through new subdivisions under construction in the farmland, his civic boosterism was very much on display: “Look at all the land around here, with plenty of room for more people!” I guess that to him, quantity is more important than quality of life. When I pointed out that we were in a desert and asked him where the water would come from to support the tens of thousands of newcomers, he said “No problem – we’ll just take more water from the Virgin and Colorado rivers.” Apparently Keith sees no limit to the amount of water that those rivers can provide. He did admit that with population growth comes more traffic and crime, and he noted the already increasing instances of theft compared to when he was growing up and folks left their keys in their car in case a neighbor needed to borrow it. But though traffic and crime are increasing – hey! There’s money to be made in developing subdivisions now, so we’ll deal with the negatives later, probably by moving somewhere else after we’ve despoiled this area. Very American. Very human.

Keith is one of 12 offspring of a devout Mormon family, but unlike his parents and siblings he and his wife are now former Mormons. He accuses Mormon founder Joseph Smith of being a pedophile because Smith married and had sex with 14 year old girls, and he said that Smith’s successor Brigham Young had to be complicit in the Mountain Meadows Massacre (see my earlier blog essay of October 7) because nothing happened in Utah at that time without Young’s knowledge and approval. He added that there is heavy pressure on LDS (Latter Day Saints) to never question or criticize Church leadership. And he said that the early LDS emphasis on polygamy (one man, many wives) was just a convenient excuse for horny Church leaders to have sex with as many women and girls as they wanted. With his wife standing next to him in the kitchen, Keith joked that the ideal number of wives is somewhere between zero and one. His wife just smiled indulgently.

From Hurricane I headed to the tiny town of Tropic, outside of Bryce National Park. There have never been any hurricanes in Hurricane, and there is nothing tropical about the desert town of Tropic. So I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to come across an arid, landlocked community called Seashore. These Utah pioneers had vivid imaginations, or a sense of humor, or both.

Outside of Bryce I saw a building that claimed to be a World Class Wildlife Museum. Next to that was a billboard advertising ATV (All Terrain Vehicle) Adventure Tours and Rentals. Given the tendency of ATVs to run over and kill desert critters, maybe the museum marketing slogan should be, “Ride our ATVs and kill the animals, then we’ll charge you to see their dead bodies.”

After a couple of sunny days hiking in Bryce Canyon I was driven indoors by a snowstorm that lasted just one day. So I spent the time reading and writing in the lobby of Ruby’s Inn, just outside the park entrance. The high-ceilinged interior is made of wood and stone, and displays the decapitated heads of male elk, moose, and bighorn sheep on its walls. A thought occurred to me: do female elk, moose, and sheep have antler envy? Probably not – having antlers might get their heads chopped off too.

I could understand how the masculine animal heads added wilderness atmosphere to the lobby, but I wondered if animal sculptures or paintings might have a similar effect without treating the animals like trophies. The decapitated creatures reminded me of how some U.S. soldiers and Indians took scalps as trophies of their conquests in the 19th century. Perhaps someday aliens will colonize our planet and mount human heads on their walls.

Speaking of masculine energy, I’ve been impressed and dismayed by all the huge pickup trucks and SUVs I’ve been seeing on the roads and in parking lots. I guess those massive vehicles prove that their male owners have big antlers.

Maybe an alien invasion wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

On October 14 I drove on Highway 12 from Tropic through the northern edge of Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, established by President Obama, cut back by President Trump, then restored by President Biden. I give thanks and gratitude to two of those three presidents. Part of that national monument is in the Dixie National Forest, which has spectacular views of the distant snow-capped Henry Mountains. It was snowing as I crossed the 9600′ summit, and as I came down from the mountains headed north toward Torrey the sun hit the red rock cliffs behind Torrey and I had a stunning view of green forest, yellow aspens, and white snow in the foreground, and glowing red cliffs in the distance. Wow.

Using the little hamlet of Torrey as my base, I’ve been exploring my third national park on this trip, Capitol Reef. This national park is a bit off the beaten track, so it’s not nearly as crowded as Zion or Bryce. Yet its lofty red cliffs and deep canyons have made me appreciate anew that the American national park system is not only the first of its kind in the world, it’s also the best in the world. Documentary filmmaker Ken Burns, in his excellent series The National Parks, described these parks as “America’s best idea.” To me our parks are aspirational enclaves that capture and preserve the beauty and majesty of our country while celebrating the idealism that humans can respect and honor our natural world. I honor the enlightened leaders that created these preserves, and I honor and appreciate the employees of the National Park Service. We are so fortunate to be able to visit these natural utopias, these wilderness gardens of Eden.

And that spiritual perspective leads me to a religious adventure that I experienced here in Torrey.

Yesterday was Sunday morning, and my body was tired from all the hiking I’ve been doing the last couple of weeks. So I thought, “I’ve never been inside a Mormon church. What the hell – why not attend the services at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints across the street from my cabin?” Only problem was, I didn’t bring any Sunday church clothes with me on this trip. I needn’t have worried – the Mormons were gracious hosts and most welcoming.

I got there half an hour early, and walked around both interior entryways and both hallways. The first thing I saw when I entered was a painting of Jesus in a white robe and soft halo gazing lovingly and compassionately at Central American Indians when, according to LDS belief, he visited them in person after his resurrection. I saw other pictures of Jesus in the hallways and meeting rooms, along with earnest exhortations on posters and whiteboards urging forgiveness, tolerance, and love.

I also saw in a foyer a 1995 proclamation from the Church leadership opposing (without explicitly saying so) gay marriage. Among the statements in the page-long proclamation: “God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force. Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

There was no cross on the steeple, or the altar, or anywhere else. Inside everything was new, clean, well lit, and orderly. The landscaping was meticulously trimmed and maintained. It all reminded me of Disneyland. On the altar was a piano, a pulpit, and maybe three pews facing the congregation. One pew held the five female choir members, and in the pews in front were seated the male church leaders. At the piano was seated the female pianist. To my left were two clean cut young men in long-sleeved white shirts and dark ties, who I learned later are priests who consecrate the bread and water of communion! As a former Catholic, I was amazed that young men would be granted such religious authority.

There was no presiding minister, but two of the male leaders were the main speakers. There was no standing or kneeling during the service, only sitting, and there was no collection plate passed around (probably due to monthly tithing). Male ushers passed white plastic trays containing pieces of white bread and tiny plastic cups of water. Almost all the men wore coats and ties.

Before the service began I was approached by a man who introduced himself as JD. He was a friendly, bearded man with a shaved head, black suit, bolo tie, and black cowboy boots. My sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white athletic shoes obviously marked me as a tourist or other outsider, and therefore a magnet for potential conversion efforts. After some preliminary small talk, JD asked if he could sit next to me in the pew. I was pleased to have someone to talk to, and gladly said yes.

Before the service began, and for two hours after, JD answered my questions. He explained that there are no crucifixes on the steeple or altar because “we don’t worship Jesus’ death, we worship his life.” I liked that answer, because I’ve always found the Christian obsession with the suffering and death of Jesus to be morbid. Why not emphasize the message of love instead?

When I asked him why Mormons are anti-gay, he said that they are not – they are just against gay marriage and “unnatural sex.” He defended the sexual behavior of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young by saying that in those days it was not uncommon for 14 year old girls to be married, and that polygamy was commanded by God at that time to increase the population of the world. He also confirmed the painting’s portrayal of Jesus coming to Central America, and added that Jesus will return to the Americas at the Second Coming.

JD informed me that the LDS church recommends but doesn’t mandate vaccines, and the recommendation is in part for public health, and partly because the Church encourages obeying the law, and in part to protect their tax-exempt status, since opposing government mandates could invite IRS scrutiny. But JD himself is unvaccinated because “I’m a conspiracy guy.” I asked him his age, and when he told me he’s 53, I said that he’s too young to have experienced what people my age did in the 1950’s – polio vaccines in sugar cubes mandated for children, vaccines that eliminated the terrible scourge of polio prior to the widespread availability of vaccines. He didn’t respond to that information.

I don’t remember how it came up, since I didn’t ask about this, but he offered the opinion that attempts to remove “In God We Trust” from U.S. currency and “One nation under God” from the Pledge of Allegiance are the influence of Satan.

I liked JD a lot, even though I didn’t agree with him on many issues, and I admire the Mormons. They’re law-abiding, self reliant people and good citizens, though way more conservative than I am. I respect their family values, except their opposition to gay marriage. While I have a low opinion of founders Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, and distrust the Church’s secretive hierarchy, and don’t share many of their beliefs, I appreciate the sincerity of their members. And there is wisdom in some of their teachings.

Regarding the Church’s proclamation to multiply and replenish the earth, JD admitted that population growth is a problem, but said that if we see everything as a gift of God, we’ll be better stewards of the planet. And the Second Coming, which is very near, will lead to the utopia of the Celestial Kingdom, and the earth will become the Garden of Eden again.

As far as I’m concerned, we already have our gardens of Eden, and if we’d just treat the rest of the planet as well as we treat our national parks, we’d be a whole lot better off. But if Jesus comes back and turns the entire Earth into a Garden of Eden, that’s fine by me.

While I’m waiting for that event, tomorrow I’m off to visit my next two national gardens, Canyonlands and Arches. I expect that they too will be heaven on Earth.

October 7, 2021

Hurricane, Utah

What’s the difference between a settler and an invader? Who gets to decide who can occupy any particular part of the planet?

I left my Bay Area home on October 1 for a four week road trip to the five national parks in Utah: Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, and Arches. It took me two days to drive from Sonoma County to this small town outside of Zion, where I’m staying for a week to hike in the spectacular mountains and canyons of this desert park. But I’m also here to get a feel for the history of the Old West and for the contemporary culture of Mormon-dominated Utah.

Driving in Nevada from Fernley (outside of Reno) to Ely on Highway 50, I could understand why 50 is called The Loneliest Road in America. This highway across the Great Basin goes through a desolate, dry, empty landscape of mountains and deserts. If California is the Golden State, then Nevada should be called the Brown State. Apparently trees are illegal in that part of Nevada. I went for long periods of seeing no other cars, and while I appreciated the stark beauty of the landscape, I also felt vulnerable in case my 2004 Toyota Camry with 228,000 miles on it should break down in the middle of nowhere.

At one point I saw a billboard that said something like “Welcome to the Heart of the Pony Express Route,” and it showed a map tracing the path of the relays of mounted young men carrying mail across Nevada to California from 1860 to 1861. I got the impression that not a whole lot has happened in that part of the state since the glory days of the Pony Express.

I liked the little mountain town of Eureka, with its charming old buildings. I spoke with several people, all polite, but almost no one wore pandemic masks, indoors or out. And I saw a large Trump/Pence sign outside a bar. In Eureka or another mountain town I saw a big sign near a Baptist church that said, “If you don’t like the life you were born with, try being born again.” Somehow I don’t think they were promoting reincarnation.

Like Eureka, Ely has some quaint vintage buildings, along with at least one Trump sign prominently displayed, and a small minority of mask wearers. My motel room was new, clean, and nice, with an extensive list of TV stations but no PBS channel. It did have, among others, Fox News and CNN, along with God TV, the Church Channel, Disney, Free Speech TV (whatever that is), and Jewelry Television. I decided to go to bed early.

The next day I headed south on Highway 93, near the Utah border, where I was soon informed by a sign that I should “Report shootings from the highway” by calling a toll-free number. Not long after that I was greeted by another sign saying “Welcome to Pioneer Country.” Maybe those two signs are related. At first I thought that Pioneer Country referred to the Pony Express and the early miners and ranchers of Nevada and Utah. And maybe it did. But many of those early settlers were Mormons, and now I wonder if the sign was really saying “Welcome to Mormon Country.”

At the little town of Panaca I headed east on Highway 319, which turned into Highway 56 at the Utah border. There I encountered a large billboard that declared “Welcome to Utah: Life Elevated.” I interpreted “life elevated” to be a not-so-subtle Mormon (Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints) message that their religion enables one to be on a higher moral plane. I was soon to learn just how uplifted the behavior of some Mormons has been.

From Highway 56 I took Highway 18 south to St. George, but I stopped in the mountains along the way to visit the infamous site of the Mountain Meadows Massacre of 1857. At that location a wagon train of about 140 emigrants traveling from Arkansas to California was ambushed and slaughtered by about 60 well-armed Mormon militiamen and some Paiute men recruited by the Mormons with promises of plunder. The Arkansas families circled their wagons and held out for five days, but when their ammunition and water almost ran out they were approached by some militiamen carrying a white flag of truce. The Mormons, who had been disguised as Indians to conceal their identities and deflect any possible blame, assured the emigrants that they (the Mormons) had negotiated a truce with the Indians, and that the emigrants would be safe if they surrendered. The emigrants handed over their weapons, and once they did so all of the men and women and most of the children were butchered by their fellow Christians and the Paiutes. Their bodies were stripped of clothing and left to be eaten by wild animals or rot in the sun, and the clothing, cattle, and horses of the families were looted by the militiamen.

Why did the Latter Day Saints commit mass murder? Partly from greed, but mostly from paranoia that outsiders might be invading Utah Territory, as well as general Mormon distrust of strangers. It is widely believed by many historians and others that Mormon leader Brigham Young organized or at least gave permission for the massacre.

Walking around the various memorials to the victims at the killing fields, I felt angry at the treachery and cruelty of the Latter Day Saints, and sad and depressed at the horror and suffering of the families and especially the small children, some of whom survived. I offered prayers for the dead at each memorial, and even said a prayer for the deluded and spiritually sick Mormon murderers. My prayers were my version of “life elevated.”

Leaving behind the tragedy of pioneers killing pioneers, I headed up Interstate 15 to Highway 9 and the town of Hurricane, where I’m staying during my Zion sojourn. I first came to Hurricane in 1979 while hitchhiking from Berkeley to Denver with my friend John. On a side trip to Zion we were given a ride by a rancher in a pickup truck, who told us he’d take us where we were going if we didn’t mind riding in the back with his dead cow. We accepted. The cow wasn’t very friendly, but we didn’t take it personally.

The original settlers of this part of Utah were the Ancestral Pueblans, followed by the Southern Paiutes. When Mormon settlers arrived, they called themselves pioneers when they took the land from the Indians. The pioneers named this land Zion, which means the Promised Land of safety, security, and abundance. But apparently God only promised the land to one kind of people, and it wasn’t the Indians.

I’m familiar with the pioneer mentality, because I once considered myself a pioneer as well. The Japanese Buddhist group to which I belonged for 15 years in my youth considered itself to be pioneers of a new Buddhist civilization that would inspire America with a more enlightened philosophy of happiness that would eventually supplant Christianity as the dominant religion of the United States. We even sang a song that celebrated our eventual spiritual conquest of America:

We sing and we laugh and we do shakubuku [proselytizing], viva the pioneers!

We fight together for kosen rufu [Buddhist utopia], viva the pioneers!

Viva the, viva the, pioneers, viva the, viva the, pioneers, pioneers, pioneers, viva the pioneers!

We didn’t kill any emigrants or Indians, but the mindset wasn’t much different from the Latter Day Saints: our religion is better than yours. So I can’t feel too morally superior to the Mormons’ or anyone else’s pioneer spirit, because I’ve seen where my own gung-ho naivete led me.

Zion National Park is magnificent with its sheer red cliffs, green river valley, narrow canyons, blue skies, and white clouds. So far I’ve spent four days hiking in this desert oasis. I’m so grateful to the National Park Service for preserving and protecting this gorgeous country from would-be pioneers who would exploit it for their selfish gain. I may no longer be a pioneer, but I am an explorer, and I have several more days of hiking ahead of me here before I move on to Bryce.

September 23, 2021

My God, we humans are a complicated species. Just when I want to judge and condemn someone, the monster turns out to be a damn saint.

I’ve never been a fan of Muhammad Ali. I hate boxing, a brutal, barbaric sport, and I don’t like braggers or egomaniacs. Flashy clothes and cars have never appealed to me, and Ali’s early racial and religious animosities turned me off.

But after watching the Ken Burns documentary “Muhammad Ali” on PBS the last four nights, I gained a more nuanced understanding of the man and the appeal he had for millions of boxing fans and impoverished people worldwide. I still don’t like his style, but I appreciate and respect his courage, integrity, and generosity, while acknowledging his cruelty toward some of his opponents and his mistreatment of his many wives, girlfriends, and former friend Malcolm X.

Lucky for me that Ken Burns will never do a documentary on my life, because if he did he’d discover a shadow side perhaps as unsavory as that of Mr. Ali, albeit on a smaller scale. I haven’t been as abusive as Ali, but neither have I been as generous. Perhaps the main difference between Ali and the rest of us is that his strengths and weaknesses were played out on a much larger stage.

The reason I kept watching the four-part documentary in spite of my revulsion at the bloody violence of the boxing matches is that Ali’s story (and Burns’ storytelling) is compelling because it combines the sensitive and highly charged issues of race, religion, sexuality, money, class, and politics.

According to the documentary producers, “His brazen outspokenness and unsurpassed boxing skills made him a heroic symbol of black masculinity to African Americans across the country. Yet at times he seemed to take pride in humiliating his black opponents.” He portrayed himself as a champion of black people and Muslims, but was a devout follower of the black nationalist Nation of Islam which preached racial segregation and hatred of “white devils.” To his credit, he eventually outgrew his religious and racial prejudices to embrace a broader identity as a human being.

One issue for which I admire Ali unreservedly is his refusal to be drafted into the army during the Vietnam war. It’s not his unwillingness to serve that I find admirable, though I have no objection to that conscientious objector stance, but rather his willingness to go to jail for five years if he had been convicted of draft dodging. He could have easily finessed the issue by performing public relations or boxing exhibitions for the army, but he stood up for his beliefs as a matter of principle. And as a result, although he never had to go to jail, his unpopular political position cost him dearly in terms of his career and his income. How many people would give up millions in potential earnings at the height of their career to do what they believe is the right thing?

But the principled pacifist was a mean, divisive, and trash-talking athlete who heaped scorn and insults upon his mostly black boxing adversaries. Yet the same man helped to feed millions of hungry people around the world, and regularly gave wads of cash and even an expensive cashmere coat off of his back to people who asked him for help. He loved people, and constantly donated large sums of money and time to charities. The angry young boxer became a kindly, sweet-tempered old man. And in addition to his philanthropy, he gave hope and encouragement to the downtrodden everywhere, and by all accounts was unsparing in lavishing attention upon each person with whom he interacted after his retirement from the ring.

Muhammad Ali is not my hero, nor is he my villain. But now I understand why Ken Burns called him “the most beloved person on the planet.”