October 30, 2020

I think I know who’s going to win the election this Tuesday. But I’m afraid that, whoever wins, we all might lose. Regardless of the outcome, I intend to rise above my inevitable anger, disgust, and fear, and keep my eye on the prize.

If the state and national polls are more accurate than they were in 2016, Joe Biden and the Democrats will win in a landslide. But there has already been widespread voter suppression by the Trump campaign and the Republican party, and there is a very real possibility of voter intimidation and even violence at some of the polling places. I hope it will be a peaceful and fair election with a rapid conclusion and a smooth transition to a new administration. But if we know one thing about Donald Trump, it’s that he is not a gracious loser. My concern is that, in the aftermath of the election, he and his more radical true believers might try to cling to power by sowing even more seeds of discord and hatred than they already have, thereby tearing the country further apart for weeks and possibly months and even, God forbid, leading to armed clashes in the streets.

Should this worst case scenario occur, or even if it doesn’t, we may be in for a rough ride. The American people have been badly divided for the last four years, but even before President Trump we experienced political, class, and racial tensions. Add a pandemic, economic woes, and climate change to that mix, and we’re left with a volatile and even combustible social milieu.

I hold Mr. Trump personally responsible for most of the chaos, animosity, and division that his presidency has engendered thus far, and for whatever mayhem might follow the election. Having said that, it must be acknowledged that he still manages to enjoy the support of 40-45% of Americans, which means that he is a reflection of a very large minority of our fellow citizens. In other words, as toxic as he may be, he is truly representative of the state of our disunion. In that sense, he is us. And we – Mr. Trump and the rest of us – are indicative of the primitive state of human evolution on this planet.

But evolve we must. No matter what happens on November 3 or in the weeks and months that follow, I believe that it’s essential for our mental and spiritual health that we stay positive. I hope to elevate my perspective by letting go of my attachment to the way I think things “should” be, and instead allow events and people to be the way they are at this time.

That doesn’t mean that I’m giving up hope.

One strategy I have for keeping my spirits up is to read uplifting stories and watch upbeat movies. Recently my friend Kay recommended two wonderful non-fiction books. Adrift is the true story of Steven Callahan, a sailor who survived 76 days alone on a raft in the Atlantic. An amazingly resourceful young man, he endured great suffering by maintaining hope in the face of terrible conditions. And I’m currently reading the second book, A Woman of No Importance, about World War II American spy Virginia Hall, a heroic disabled woman who aided the French resistance behind enemy lines in Nazi-occupied France.

Tomorrow or the next day I’ll re-watch Lincoln, directed by Steven Spielberg and starring Daniel Day-Lewis as my favorite president. And if Tuesday’s election turns out badly or drags on interminably, I’ll re-read and re-watch The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, more stories of courage in the face of overwhelming odds; hopeless quests that turn out well.

I do hope that Joe Biden prevails in his long quest for the presidency, because unlike his opponent, he appeals to the “better angels of our nature,” in the words of Abraham Lincoln. But regardless of the electoral outcome, I aspire to live up to Lincoln’s compassionate approach to his defeated enemies: “With malice toward none; with charity for all.”

October 12, 2020

For the last couple of days I’ve been irritated with my next door neighbor and landlord Mike because he put some ugly junk in my backyard. Not only was I annoyed by the introduction of these eyesores into the redwoods and ivy, but I also resented the intrusion of his stuff into my space. Yes, he owns the property, but I pay rent to enjoy my apartment and the area behind it. Feeling very territorial, I decided this morning to confront him about the situation.

But first, I did my daily meditation and chanting, and those practices calmed me. I realized that I was more likely to gain Mike’s cooperation by having a pleasant chat on another topic first rather than abruptly complaining about the invasion of his foreign objects. A few minutes later I saw him outside and approached him in the way I just described. To my relief he agreed that the old stove, boxes, and beat-up table are not a pretty sight, and he assured me that he had only placed them there temporarily while he decides what to do with them. He promised to move them soon. (And later, just as I was completing this essay, he did so).

While pleased with the denouement of this tempest in a teapot, I know that such mini conflicts in my life are more common than I might like to think. I’m aware that I’m opinionated, but what’s worse is how attached I am to my opinions as well as how attached I am to my perceived need to defend my beliefs.

In a recent phone conversation with my dear friend Kay we were discussing how population growth affects one’s quality of life. She said that since population growth is inevitable, we should increase housing density in suburbs for environmental and ethnic diversity reasons. Horrified, I said that population growth is inevitable only if we do nothing about it. I started to get really angry, then caught myself. In that moment I understood that even if I’m right about overpopulation, why was I starting to get so riled up about it? And is my opinion more important than my relationship with one of my best friends? I quickly backed off my argument before it turned into a rant, and to her credit Kay let me off the hook.

Still, I had to wonder: are my ego and its beliefs that fragile? Why is it so important for me to promote or protect my opinions? Then I recalled something that another close friend, Phil, once said: “Whenever there’s an argument about politics, it’s not really about politics. It’s about feeling powerless.” And what part of us feels powerless? The ego. Our essence or soul or higher self knows that our bodies, possessions, and circumstances are impermanent, so it’s best to let go of our attachment to “me and mine” and instead embrace the wisdom that everything is “us and ours.”

Yeah, I know – I’m not that generous or kind yet, and maybe you aren’t either. But at least we can start by asking ourselves: Who am I? Who, or what, is my Self? Am I my opinions, or is there more to me than meets the I?

Earlier this week I came across a Buddhist parable that speaks to the questions of identity, attachments, and transience. It’s called Sand Castles:

Some children were playing beside a river. They made castles of sand, and each child defended his castle and said, “This one is mine.” They kept their castles separate and would not allow any mistakes about which was whose.

When the castles were all finished, one child kicked over someone else’s castle and completely destroyed it. The owner of the castle flew into a rage, pulled the other child’s hair, struck him with his fist and bawled out, “He has spoiled my castle! Come along all of you and help me to punish him as he deserves.” The others all came to his help. They beat the child with a stick and then stamped on him as he lay on the ground.

Then they went on playing in their sand castles, each saying, “This is mine; no one else may have it. Keep away! Don’t touch my castle!” But evening came; it was getting dark and they all thought they ought to be going home. No one now cared what became of his castle. One child stamped on his, another pushed his over with both hands. Then they turned away and went back, each to his home. (Translated by Arthur Waley)

Kinda makes you think that in the grand scheme of things, our attachment to objects and beliefs is rather petty.

But I must confess that after I read the parable a third or fourth time, it occurred to me that the brat that kicked over someone else’s castle and got his ass kicked got what he deserved. Served the little bastard right.

So as you can see, I’m not as evolved as the Buddha. It’s still my backyard and my sand castle, god dammit. But at least I’m starting to ask the right questions.

September 27, 2020

I’m not a Christian. I don’t believe in hell or Satan. I think that Donald Trump is an Antichrist. Let me explain.

According to Wikipedia, the Antichrist is a person prophesied by the Bible to oppose Christ and substitute himself in Christ’s place before the Second Coming. I don’t believe in the Antichrist or in the Second Coming, so I don’t believe that Trump is the Antichrist. But I do think that the current President of the United States embodies the opposite of the teachings of Jesus Christ, and in that sense he is an Antichrist.

Several years ago I traveled to Israel, Egypt, and Jordan to experience the history, religions, and cultures of those countries. I was especially curious to see what I could learn about the life and teachings of Jesus, so I read several books about him before I visited Nazareth, the Sea of Galilee, and Jerusalem. I’m still not sure whether Jesus was primarily a political revolutionary or an enlightened spiritual teacher, or both. I don’t believe that he died for my sins. But whether he was merely an important historical figure or whether he was a messenger from God, my sense is that everything he stood for is the polar opposite of what Donald Trump represents.

When I ponder the message and nature of Jesus, I imagine a man of great humility and compassion. A man who loved people, who wanted to teach them how to access their inner divinity so that they could learn to be one with God. A man who believed in helping others, especially the poor and the sick. A man of integrity and decency, who knew that character and behavior have consequences. A man who was honest and courageous, who honored other people, a profoundly good man. A man, in other words, who had nothing in common with the current occupant of the White House.

Yet many evangelical Christians and Catholics are among Trump’s most ardent supporters. Why? Apparently because Trump, who like Ronald Reagan was pro-choice on abortion until he ran for president, is appointing anti-abortion justices to the Supreme Court in order to get the votes of the evangelicals and conservative Catholics. The Bible says nothing about abortion, yet for reasons that are not clear to me, some Christians have decided that the death penalty is OK, as is war, but abortion is against God’s will.

As much as I dislike Trump for his endless lying, insults, corruption, incompetence, abuse of journalists, threats of violence, racial dog whistles, undermining of democratic institutions, denial of climate change, and profound indecency, I have to wonder whether he might actually be representative of our collective unconscious. That is, maybe Trump accurately reflects the perverted state of the human race at this stage of our development. If so, he may be a teacher whose lessons we will have to learn the hard way as a step in our evolution.

For that reason, maybe we need the Adolf Hitlers, Joseph Stalins, Mao ZeDongs, Kim Jong Uns, Vladimir Putins, and Donald Trumps of the world to remind us of what we must not become. Maybe an Antichrist Trump is helping to prepare the way for the emergence of the collective Christ consciousness on Planet Earth by discrediting his antithesis of Christian teachings. If that’s the case, then by definition Donald Trump really is the Antichrist.

Oh wait – I don’t believe in the Antichrist. Never mind.

Although I detest the yellow-haired, orange-faced con man at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I truly feel sorry for him. Imagine being that insecure, that cynical, that cruel and greedy, that responsible for the unnecessary deaths of tens of thousands of Americans due to his Covid negligence and deceptions. If you believe, as I do, that upon our death each of us will be compassionately helped and guided to review our just-completed life and the positive and negative consequences of our actions in that life, then you can imagine the chagrin, the deep sorrow, the pain, and the despair that Donald Trump will experience at death as he comes to understand how much negative karma he has created for himself and how much harm he has inflicted upon his country and upon humanity.

For now we have the delicious irony that Mr. Trump, who makes a mockery of the teachings of Jesus, is the standard bearer for the Christian right; the delicious irony that a prince of darkness is the champion of many Christian true believers.

Regardless of the outcome of the November 3rd election, it will be interesting to see which brand of Christianity will prevail: the decency of Joe Biden’s version, or the hypocrisy of Donald Trump’s dystopia. Positive or negative, may the best spiritual outcome for humanity prevail.

September 7, 2020

How did a ferocious killer transform himself into a kind, generous, beloved community leader?

This was the question I found myself asking in the last couple weeks as I read Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, by S.C. Gwynne.

Like most Americans, I had heard of the Comanches, a tough Plains Indian tribe that dominated much of Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, and northern Mexico in the 18th and 19th centuries. Unlike most Americans, I had also heard of Quanah Parker, the son of a captive white mother and her Comanche warrior husband. What I did not know until I read the book was how vicious and barbaric the Comanches were in their dealings with other Indian tribes and with the Spanish, Mexicans, and Americans.

Growing up with a romanticized image of the noble Red Man, I idealized my childhood paragons Cochise of the Chiricahua Apaches and Crazy Horse of the Oglala Lakota Sioux. Yes, I knew that they were violent and even bloodthirsty, but I justified their aggressiveness as a necessary trait in the defense of their people and lands against invading Americans. However, even I was shocked recently as I read about the sadistic practices of the Comanches and their Indian enemies. Not only did they routinely slaughter and enslave one another, but they took great pleasure in torturing, mutilating, dismembering, and gang raping their Indian and white opponents. And as a feared Comanche war chief, Quanah Parker was no exception to such mayhem.

As author S.C. Gwynne said in a passing reference to my Lakota champion, “Crazy Horse was undoubtedly heroic in battle and remarkably charitable in life. But as an Oglala Sioux he was also a raider, and raiding meant certain very specific things, including the abuse of captives. His great popularity – a giant stone image of him is being carved from a mountain in South Dakota – may have a great deal to do with the fact that very little is known about his early life. He is free to be the hero we want him to be.”

Quanah was a cruel slayer of other Indians, but he especially hated white men because they had killed his father and recaptured his mother. Yet once he decided that it was in the interest of his people to surrender rather than face extermination, this fierce, vengeful butcher changed his attitude overnight. He realized that, for better or worse, the future of the Comanches was in becoming Americans, and so he chose to take advantage of any opportunities that he could envision. His life on the reservation was never easy – he had political, financial, and marital problems – but he consciously chose to maintain a positive attitude no matter what injustices he encountered. He eventually became wealthy, and developed a friendship with President Theodore Roosevelt, even hosting Roosevelt at his large reservation home.

But Quanah’s first priority was always taking care of his people. He gradually gave away all his wealth to his fellow Comanches, in the form of food, cattle, and horses, and as a result he died a poor man.

What was the secret to Quanah Parker’s reinvention of himself from Comanche cutthroat to American benefactor? According to S.C. Gwynne, “What Quanah had that the rest of his tribe in the later years did not was that most American of human traits: boundless optimism. Quanah never looked back, an astonishing feat of will for someone who had lived in such untrammeled freedom on the open plains, and who had endured such a shattering transformation. In hard times he looked resolutely forward to something better.”

Not a bad lesson for those of us living in hard times today.

August 27, 2020

This past week my brother’s house burned down in the California wildfires. I prepared to evacuate because of those same fires. My mother entered hospice, my friend Cris came home from the hospital and is recovering from Covid 19, and a family member continues her slow recovery from the coronavirus after four months. There are more race riots, this time in Wisconsin and elsewhere, and the Republican convention declared that everything is going so well in the U.S. that Trump deserves another four years in the White House.

My response? Appreciation.

It may sound like denial, to put on a happy face while my home state is burning, family members are suffering, Covid 19 wrecks the economy, climate change is wreaking havoc worldwide, racial tensions explode into violence, and refugees flee war and poverty.

But I can only take so much negativity in the news before I start to feel depressed or angry or both. And my disgust and despair do not lead to positive action, but rather they cause me to feel cynical and hopeless about the state of the human race.

So I practice mindfulness. Whenever I notice that I’m feeling sorry for myself or for the world, I try to remember to shift my focus and pay attention to what is going right in my life. And I have a lot to be thankful for.

My health is excellent. I have a wonderful family and friends. I live in a beautiful area. I have enough money. My country and planet are going through some tough times, but even if things deteriorate, there’s still a lot of beauty in nature, as I rediscover every time I go hiking along the California coast.

Perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned to regain a sense of wonder, even awe, at the mystery, love, and joy that I sense underlying the universe and life all around me. We are so fortunate to have the opportunity to be in Classroom Earth, to learn our life lessons while we evolve and reconnect with our souls and with the god Force. Call it what you will: Christ consciousness, buddha nature, a higher power. Whatever it is, something is propelling humanity forward beyond our ignorance and self destructiveness toward the evolution of our collective consciousness.

Yeah, yeah, I know – you’d never guess that human beings are evolving if you watch or read about the Republican convention. Even many conservatives are appalled by the fear mongering and paranoia being promoted by the conspiracy theories and personality cult around Donald Trump. But some people, and some nations, have to learn their lessons the hard way. It’s difficult to watch individuals and societies behave so stupidly. But hey – who am I to judge? I’ve certainly created enough karma to last many lifetimes, and yet here I am, still learning, still growing, still screwing up, and still being treated with compassion by someone or something. If the universe can forgive me for my foolishness, I suppose I ought to offer the same understanding and patience to others who are behaving badly. But it ain’t easy to be that kind.

I imagine that my life will keep getting better, except when it gets worse. For now, though, I intend to follow the advice of the 13th century sage Nichiren: “Suffer what there is to suffer, enjoy what there is to enjoy, and continue (your Buddhist practice).”

Acceptance and appreciation – my tickets to feelin’ groovy.

August 17, 2020

When my next door neighbor Mike started baying at the moon a couple months ago, I thought he was a drunken fool. But he wasn’t alone in what became his nightly ritual. Other neighbors answer back with their own anonymous yelps, and one person sounds an air horn blast to contribute to the cacophony. Local dogs and coyotes may be chiming in as well for all I know; I can’t distinguish humans from animals in these primal roars.

And maybe that’s the point. There’s something primitive in these plaintive calls and responses, similar to owls calling to each other late at night and early in the morning to announce to one another, “I am here.”

It turns out that Mike and company aren’t wailing at the moon. I probably should have just asked Mike what he was braying about each night at 8 pm, but I was reluctant to reveal my true feelings on the subject, which are that I would prefer that he shut the flock up and crawl back under his rock. So I took the less confrontational approach and consulted my electronic oracle Ghoulgull, where I learned that my neighbors are part of a nationwide trend that started in Colorado on March 27 with a Facebook group called “Go Outside and Howl.” Apparently the 8 pm howl originated as a tribute to pandemic healthcare workers, but it has morphed (degenerated?) into a cathartic release from the shelter-in-place coronavirus blues.

As much as I value peace and quiet, I can’t really blame my yahoo neighbors for unleashing their pent-up frustrations, whether or not that liberating is fueled by alcohol. Well, OK, I do blame them, but I won’t dwell upon my self righteous judgements. Rather, I will acknowledge that sometimes we humans need to vent our frustrations and feelings of isolation by raging at the winds of political, economic, social, and pandemic upheavals. The poet Allen Ginsberg expressed his apocalyptic despair in his angry rant Howl, and Shakespeare showed King Lear voicing his madness by shouting his angst into the stormy night.

Venting may be therapeutic, at least temporarily, but it’s not a good long range strategy. Even Allen Ginsberg and King Lear calmed down eventually. Fortunately for me, the nightly vocalizing of my neighbors is brief and good natured, an understandable (if mildly annoying) expression of a desire for connection and community.

I’m more concerned with the mental and emotional well being of young people these days. I’m currently interviewing teenagers and their parents by phone for a smoking and health study being conducted by my research employer on behalf of the federal government. I’ve known some of these families for several years because I’ve visited them in person each year, but now the Covid 19 pandemic prevents me from going to their homes. Until recently I would hand my laptop to the kids and let them answer the health questions privately, but now I’m required to read the questions to the teens and record their answers.

It’s never easy being a teenager, but I’ve been surprised by the amount of stress that the coronavirus is causing some of these kids. Not only do many of them experience anxiety about the health risks of the virus, but their high school and college schooling has been severely disrupted or curtailed and their access to their friends greatly limited. Add to those concerns the economic and political chaos in the United States, and my heart goes out to them. I wish I could offer them more encouragement than I do, but I’m required to be neutral and professional as I administer the survey, and the telephone is a poor substitute for an in-home visit.

Almost all of these kids have social media accounts, but Facebook and Instagram are no replacement for human touch and in-person comraderie. And some social media interactions are negative and even toxic, leading to teen suicides.

We live in a time of increasing alienation for adults and especially for teens, a time made worse by our culture of individualism, competition, and materialism. But I hope that our social and climate change upheavals will eventually lead to an awareness that we are all in this together, and that we need each other.

In our local author Jack London’s classic short story, The Call of the Wild, the canine protagonist Buck suffers great tribulations before joining, and becoming the leader of, a pack of wolves: Buck’s “great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.” The call of the wild is the song of the pack. In our case the pack is not tribal, but the entire human race, and the planet upon which we all live together.The song of our pack is a song of grief, anguish, and torment, but also a song of oneness, joy, and belonging to something greater than ourselves.

May our journey of disintegration lead to a call of awakening, reintegration, and celebration.

July 24, 2020

Being judgemental can be fun.

I enjoy the feeling of moral superiority and clarity that comes with the tendency to divide people into good guys and bad guys: Democrats are good, and Republicans are evil. Western democracies are superior, and authoritarian countries like China and Russia are inferior. People who litter or play loud music are jerks, and those who are considerate of others are worthy of respect. Smokers are self destructive fools, and health nuts like me are virtuous.

But sooner or later, I usually discover that individuals and institutions are more complicated than my simplistic caricatures of them might portray. Some Democratic politicians are corrupt, and some Republican politicians have integrity (I can’t think of any examples of current Republican politicians with integrity, but I’m sure they must exist). A few Western democracies such as the United States, Hungary, Poland, and Turkey have become more authoritarian, and there are free spirits and open minded people in Russia and China. Litterers and loud folks might also be generous or compassionate. My dad was a smoker and a loving father, and this virtuous health nut was once a heavy drinker.

I was reminded of those complexities last night during our weekly Thursday night Zoom meditation meeting. Eight of us listened online to a recorded talk by meditation teacher Jack Kornfield, who at one point invoked the name of Mother Theresa. This famous nun, celebrated for her works of charity, is now known in the Catholic Church as Saint Theresa of Calcutta. But she has also been dubbed Hell’s Angel for her controversial and polarizing legacy of supposedly neglecting and exploiting the same poor people she served. I think it’s safe to say that she did a lot of good while also behaving as a flawed human being. In that respect she can join the ranks of other imperfect saints, including George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Mohandas Gandhi, and Martin Luther King.

Another name that came up last night was that of Red Cloud, the admired and vilified Lakota Sioux leader who fought the invading U.S. Army in Wyoming and Montana in the 1860’s. My dharma buddy Guy appreciates Red Cloud’s ability to be flexible enough to transform himself from a war leader to a peacemaker, and I agree with him. But I didn’t always feel that way.

One of my boyhood heroes was Crazy Horse, the renowned Lakota war chief who triumphantly fought George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, also known as Custer’s Last Stand. I looked up to Crazy Horse not only because of his extraordinary skill in battle, but also because of his inspiring and prescient dream vision that accurately predicted both his success in war and his tragic death. And this youthful dream gave him his mystical name, which has been crudely rendered into English as Crazy Horse but is more accurately translated as His Horse Behaves in a Sacred Manner.

I also admired Crazy Horse because he ferociously protected his people, their land, and their way of life from an invading force. And that’s why I disliked Red Cloud. To Crazy Horse and his followers, Red Cloud was a sellout who betrayed his nation by being too willing to surrender to the Americans. Crazy Horse and others saw Red Cloud as a politician maneuvering for his own gain and status. And so, if Crazy Horse viewed Red Cloud in a negative light, so did I.

But now, almost 60 years after first reading about Crazy Horse and Red Cloud, I have softened my understanding of who Red Cloud was. Like my friend Guy, I now realize that Red Cloud was a realist who saw the futility of resisting a conquering power that had vastly superior technology and numbers. He may or may not have been a self aggrandizing politician, but he served his people well as a military commander and later as a negotiator. Yes, he was a bitter rival to my hero Crazy Horse, but who am I to judge which man was more or less noble?

I do find it interesting that when, in the 1930’s while the images of four U.S. Presidents were being carved into the granite face of Mt. Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota, Lakota chief Standing Bear requested that a Lakota leader be similarly honored with a nearby mountain sculpture. The leader that Standing Bear and his fellow Lakota chiefs chose to be so honored? Not Red Cloud or Sitting Bull, but Crazy Horse. I have twice been to the ongoing construction site that is the Crazy Horse Monument, and I have mixed feelings about it. I’m glad to see monuments to men I respect: Crazy Horse, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt. But I wish the sculptors didn’t have to dynamite the Black Hills to carve these giant likenesses.

And I hope that someday we can find a way to honor the contributions of those men and the contributions of people like Red Cloud and Mother Theresa while acknowledging the complexity and human shortcomings of those individuals. They, and we, are all heroes and villains, and maybe we can all eventually learn to accept our own dark sides if we can allow other people to have their dark sides too.

June 30, 2020

Race is a touchy subject. So perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that two readers of this blog wrote to me to express their disapproval of something I said in my last essay, “White privilege, Dad privilege,” dated Father’s Day, June 21 (scroll down to read that blog post).

In that essay, I said that I don’t feel privileged because of my white skin, but that I do feel fortunate to have had the father that I had. I added that “the biggest advantage that I’ve had and that anyone could have, other than good health, is having a loving family with two supportive parents. Being loved is way more important than being white.”

The two women who wrote to me are friends of mine, so their criticism was gentler than it might have been if they didn’t know me. Since their comments were essentially the same, I’ll let Sandy speak for the two of them:

“Your Father’s Day tribute to your father actually disturbed me. Not for the love of your father, but for a blatant comment that having a loving childhood was much more important than the color of (your) skin. I was literally gasping…George Floyd grew up with a great deal of love. He was killed for the color of his skin.”

Here’s part of my reply to Sandy:

“I agree that George Floyd was killed because of the color of his skin, and that love could not save him…But I still stand by my statement that ‘being loved is way more important than being white.’ Being loved may not protect a black person from the police, but it does greatly increase a person’s chances of having the self respect, confidence, financial, emotional, and educational support needed to live in this difficult world. It’s hard enough being black in this or any society, but without love a person has far less chance of survival or happiness. Yes, black skin color is a huge disadvantage, and yes white and Asian and Latino people need to reduce our fear of black men and open our hearts more to all black people. But Barack Obama became who he is thanks to a loving mother and grandparents who raised him when his father abandoned him. He and many other black folk have overcome racial barriers thanks to their hard work and their loving families. Obama himself has spoken about the need for black men to not abandon their women and children.

“Strong, loving, intact families, whether white or black or whatever, are a greater predictor of a person’s future than is their skin color. If you don’t believe that, read Hillbilly Elegy, the memoir of a white man who survived a family with generations of dysfunction. There are more poor white people in this country than people of any other ethnicity, and these white folk are the polar opposite of white privilege. Skin color has gotten them nothing. The best role models for white or black families are Barack and Michelle Obama, who are exactly the kind of parents that this country needs more of. If all parents were like them, our race problems would be solved much more quickly. Love is stronger than color.”

But color does matter. So does culture, and so do families.

I remember the assassinations of Malcolm X (by three black men of the Nation of Islam in 1965) and Martin Luther King (by a white man in 1968). In the summer of 1970 I volunteered in housing projects in San Francisco, helping to provide recreational opportunities for the black kids in those horrible urine-reeking mid-rise apartment buildings. In 1971 I was assaulted in Berkeley by a group of young black men who screamed their hatred of white people as they rained blows upon me. Yet even after that incident, I ended up having lots of black friends in the SGI Buddhist organization, as well as having a few more ugly racial incidents. I lived in two African American neighborhoods in Berkeley for four years, and I have occasionally worked in similar environs as a social science researcher for the last 25 years. So the subject of race relations has been and continues to be of great interest to me.

If you’re a white person like me, the subject of race can be sad, frustrating, and depressing. If you’re black, the subject is a daily reminder of pain, anger, injustice, humiliation, and danger. Liberals tend to blame black poverty on external factors such as housing segregation and job discrimination, whereas conservatives usually believe that internal considerations such as family values and personal choices are greater determinants of prosperity and happiness. I think that both perspectives are valid.

One impediment to racial progress is the high crime rate in the African American community. According to the U.S. Dept of Justice, African Americans, who comprise 13% of the U.S. population, committed 52.5% of all homicides between 1980 and 2008. That’s a shocking murder statistic. And according to the National Crime Victimization Survey in 2002, robberies with white victims and black offenders were more than 12 times more common than vice versa. So it is not irrational for whites, Asians, and Latinos to fear black men, and it’s not surprising that black men continue to attract police attention and have encounters with law enforcement that have negative consequences. But having said that, it’s also true that all too often it is innocent black men who are stopped by police because of the color of their skin. And while George Floyd may not have been innocent of a crime, he certainly did not deserve the brutal treatment he received at the hands of a cruel white cop.

But if you talk about police violence against African Americans, then you also have to acknowledge that 93% of black men are killed by other black men. If black lives really matter, then that slogan needs to start being honored in the African American community first. Respect starts at home.

And home is where, if we’re fortunate, we learn lessons of love, respect for self and others, the importance of education, and the necessity of strong families with two or more adults providing emotional and financial support. This is as true for the 15.7 million white Americans living in poverty as it is for the 10.5 million Hispanic Americans who are poor and the 8.9 million African Americans who are poor.

The truth is that all of us live to varying degrees in spiritual poverty and ignorance, and so all of us need to find a path of awakening that will enable us to get along with one another and to lead rich, meaningful lives. We shall overcome our ignorance and fears when we learn to stop oppressing each other and stop oppressing ourselves. Yes we can improve police training and pass new legislation. But the hardest changes of all are the changes each one of us needs to make in our own consciousness, in our own heart.

Race matters. And love matters more.

Father’s Day, June 21, 2020

It’s fashionable again for many white liberals to feel guilty about their skin color. This was true during the civil rights movement of the 1960’s, and it’s true now with the Black Lives Matter movement against police brutality. But while self reflection and introspection are healthy responses to any personal or social problem, self flagellation is another matter entirely.

As a white man, I don’t feel guilty or privileged, especially since the word privileged is often a negative, judgemental term that implies elitism or wealth. But I do feel fortunate. I don’t have the disadvantages that black people suffer from. My health is excellent. I live simply, but in a beautiful area in a mostly peaceful and prosperous country. And I had a head start in life by having two parents who loved me and who made sure that I got a good education in the pubic schools.

Our family dynamics were complicated and rocky when I was growing up, so I did experience some turmoil, confusion, and misery. But we always had enough to eat, and we lived in nice middle class neighborhoods. As a salesman, my dad was a good provider, though not such a great husband.

My father’s dad abandoned him and his sister when they were small children, and my dad never got over the pain of having a father who didn’t love him. So when my parents divorced when I was 14, my dad did not abandon me and my three siblings. He stayed in touch with us by letter and phone, and he never missed his child support payments.

Roy George Wigginton was the first in his working class family to graduate from high school, and the first to go to college. Raised by his mother and grandparents, he developed an empathy for the little guy, and became a lifelong Democrat. A tolerant, non-religious man, he voted for JFK and heatedly defended him when the other guys in his carpool attacked Kennedy for his Catholicism.

When I became a Buddhist at age 17, my dad was supportive. When my brother became a pot grower and one of my sisters became a lesbian, Dad accepted them and their choices without hesitation. He might have been disappointed when I left the business world to become an aspiring writer, but if he disapproved of my decision he never let on, saying instead, “Always do what you love.”

I’m glad that I’m white and male in this society, because it’s easier than being black or being a woman. But the biggest advantage that I’ve had and that anyone could have, other than good health, is having a loving family with two supportive parents. Being loved is way more important than being white.

So thanks Dad for being such a good role model. And happy Father’s Day, wherever you are.

June 13, 2020

Dead or alive, now is not a good time to be famous.

J.K. Rowling, feminist author of the Harry Potter books, is being publicly attacked by transgender activists and their celebrity supporters for being insufficiently sympathetic toward transgender people.

Tonight Show host Jimmy Fallon and Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau have been denounced for appearing in blackface decades ago.

Statues of Winston Churchill, Mohandas Gandhi, Christopher Columbus, and Robert E. Lee have been vandalized this week because they have been accused of racism.

Martin Luther King, long criticized for plagiarism and womanizing, recently has been alleged to have been a witness to and encourager of a rape in a hotel room.

It seems that sainthood isn’t as much fun as it used to be.

In the past, iconoclasts (Greek: image breakers) were people known for smashing idols such as religious images that the iconoclasts considered to be heretical. Nowadays we have cancel culture, also known as callout culture, online shaming, and outrage culture, which often occurs on social media and is used to publicly humiliate, ostracize, and bully individuals whose ideas or behavior don’t match those of their harassers. These modern Puritans feel superior to and holier than the targets of their wrath, and therefore entitled to insult and abuse those human beings who don’t share their world view.

I can certainly understand a desire to reform institutions or challenge beliefs that may be harmful to individuals and society. Many police departments are in urgent need of improvement, and politicians such as the current occupant of the White House need to be held to account. Some statues of historical figures, dubbed “ghosts of oppression” by one BBC writer, may need to be relocated to museums.

But I’m concerned about the rising intolerance from left wing and right wing fanatics whose hatred of people who are different from themselves masks an inability to see their own shadow. Anti fascist anarchists have a lot in common with white supremacists, including the tendency to see evil in other people but not in themselves. Black protesters demand that white people change their attitudes and behavior, but say nothing about their own need to reduce their crime rate and build strong families.

In the Salem witch trials of 1692 the Puritans hanged 14 women and 5 men as witches, and in the red scare of the 1950’s Senator Joseph McCarthy ruined the lives and careers of many American citizens. But Nathaniel Hawthorne in The Scarlet Letter and Arthur Miller in The Crucible later exposed the hypocrisy of those 17th and 19th century Puritans.

And now in the 21st century we have our anti racist crusaders and our white power true believers determined to exorcise the devils in their opponents but not in themselves. And hey – I can be as judgemental and opinionated as any of them. But fortunately or unfortunately for yours truly, I have met the enemy and he is me.

As much as I might enjoy the view from atop a pedestal, now is not the best time to be an icon. Someone would be sure to come along and knock me off my perch. So I’ll just have to hang out with my fellow sinners until such time as I can pose as a self righteous saint and get away with it.

A self righteous saint – just like my left wing and right wing compatriots today.