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.”

September 4, 2021

When hiking with friends and acquaintances at Point Reyes National Seashore, I enjoy taking in the sights of the natural world: pelicans, tule elk, seals, coyotes, wildflowers, and occasionally whales and dolphins. Our trail conversations cover a variety of topics, but race is rarely one of them. Yesterday was one such day.

While eating lunch with my 13 fellow white hikers at the tip of Tomales Point, a woman sat next to me on the sandy hillside, a woman I had never met before. After some small talk, I learned that she grew up in Berkeley, and in recent years had returned to her hometown.

Susan went to public schools there, as did her son, and she was a teacher in the public schools for awhile. She said that the Berkeley public schools were among the best in the nation until the city began busing both black and white students in 1968 in order to achieve racial balance in the schools. Many white parents responded by taking their children out of public schools and putting them in private schools. And she said that the teachers were sometimes overwhelmed by trying to manage the unruly black kids who were bused in from the poorer neighborhoods, and the remaining white kids were bored because the stressed teachers had to spend much of their time maintaining discipline and order among the bused children rather than teaching the more advanced white kids.

I lived in Berkeley until 1955, when I was three years old. Then my family moved to the suburbs, where I got an excellent education in the all white public schools. For that reason I’m glad that I grew up in the suburbs.

At 18 I chose to move back to Berkeley to attend the University of California, where in addition to my academic studies I began my education in racial dynamics by living in predominately black neighborhoods for three and a half years. My motives weren’t lofty; I was working my way through college as a kitchen helper and dishwasher, and I lived where I and my roommates could afford the rent.

In the summer of 1970, after high school but before starting college, I volunteered with a handful of other idealistic white and Asian teens to help provide recreational opportunities for black kids living in two housing projects in San Francisco. My naivete was rewarded when I was targeted by a black boy who threw a rock that struck me between the eyes, opening a gash that bloodied my face.

One time we took the kids on a field trip to the zoo, and while on public transportation the boys behaved like wild animals while the girls were their usual charming, sweet selves. I imagine that those boys ended up either in prison or in early graves.

I did not then and do not now believe in segregation, but I certainly gained an appreciation for why one would choose to be selective about the kinds of people with whom one associates. If you are black, there are legitimate reasons to resent white oppression, and if you are white, Asian, or Latino, it is understandable if you fear black crime or other anti-social behaviors.

A few days ago I was reminded of segregation and racial animosity when for the first time I finally read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, then watched for the umpteenth time the movie of the same name starring Gregory Peck. Both book and movie are first rate classics, though the book provides far more detail and nuance about the coming of age story of the two Finch children, Scout and Jem, the nobility of character of their father, attorney Atticus Finch, the class divides between white people, and the racial abuse of black people by whites in a small Alabama town in the 1930’s during the Great Depression.

The title of the book and movie refers to a quote from Atticus, who told his son Jem and daughter Scout that it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird because they are innocent creatures that harm no one but instead make music for everyone to enjoy.

The two symbolic mockingbirds of the story are Boo Radley, a white, psychologically abused recluse, and Tom Robinson, a black man falsely accused of rape and defended in court by Atticus. The townspeople were quick to judge Radley and Robinson, but as Atticus said indirectly of both of them, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb around in his skin and walk around in it.”

Atticus was a wise, loving father and man of great moral integrity, but he was also realistic about the state of race relations in his town, and he knew that he had little chance of prevailing when he agreed to defend Tom Robinson in court. Even so, he sat alone outside the county jail at night, unarmed, waiting for the lynch mob that came to hang Tom Robinson before the trial.

As Atticus told his young son Jem, courage is “when you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

The black residents of the town watched the drama from the segregated “colored” balcony of the courthouse, and they too were realistic about the outcome of a trial with an all-white male jury judging a black man in Alabama. In spite of that understanding, at the conclusion of the trial, as Atticus prepared to leave the courtroom, all the black spectators stood out of respect and appreciation for his heroic efforts before and during the trial, and a black minister said to Atticus’ daughter, “Miss (Scout), stand up. Your father’s passin’.”

My takeaway from the book, movie, and conversation with Susan from Berkeley: there is ugliness and beauty in this world, but we are better off if, like Atticus Finch, we can choose to focus on doing the right thing even when the deck is stacked against us. As much as possible, we are wiser if we can ignore those who express negative energy, and instead appreciate the songs of the mockingbirds.

August 12, 2021

Yesterday I found a twig of ugliness in a forest of beauty. Being human, I naturally chose to focus on the twig.

I was hiking in a redwood grove at the Sonoma coast with five companions on a sometimes foggy, sometimes sunny day. We had just come down the fairly steep Pomo Canyon trail, and were admiring the gorgeous forest with light streaming down through the towering redwood and bay trees, when I encountered my old friend Bill and his daughter Anne. I hadn’t seen them in years, so I told my hiking buddies that they could continue on without me for a bit while I reconnected with Bill and Anne.

I learned that Anne and her husband are co-owners of two popular Asian eateries in nearby Sebastopol. One of them, a new Thai restaurant called Khom Loi (Floating Lanterns), has received highly favorable reviews from the Michelin restaurant guide and other food critics. But Anne told me that a writer for the San Francisco Chronicle had scolded the two chef co-owners in her review, accusing them of “cultural appropriation.” Their culinary crime? They are white. How dare they presume to be familiar with a cuisine that doesn’t match their skin color?

I don’t have a lot of patience with political correctness, but living in the Bay Area one frequently encounters such narrow-mindedness and intolerance. Even so, I try to keep an open mind myself in order to understand where people with those beliefs are coming from.

The term “cultural appropriation” is a relatively recent phrase that refers to the use of images or aspects of cultures that are different from one’s own heritage. So according to this idea, it’s not a bad thing to appreciate different ways of life, but it is taboo to copy them. Anyone is free to enjoy food, music, dance, clothing, or language from other parts of the world, so this thinking goes, but only members of the original ethnic group are entitled to engage in the creation or practice of those traditions.

In a way, I can appreciate this argument. The intent is to respect the originality and positive traits of various peoples without stereotyping or offending them in the process of mimicking them. So while some individuals may not intend any disrespect when they wear blackface or dress up as American Indians on Halloween or wear a leprechaun get-up on St. Patrick’s Day, some members of those ethnicities feel that they’re being caricatured by those portrayals. It is important, therefore, that we do our best to be sensitive to one another in our cross cultural encounters.

Sometimes, though, we go too far in demanding that we not be offended. Some people argue that it is cultural appropriation for folks who live outside of India to practice yoga. Others insist that it’s only acceptable for black people to wear dreadlocks or corn rows, while ignoring the fact that by straightening and sometimes lightening their hair most black women are choosing white or Asian hairstyles. Should white and Asian women resent black women for copying their hair?

If you scroll down to one of my previous blog posts, Heavenly Dance, dated March 27, 2021, you’ll see that I celebrated a Chinese performance of Irish stepdance. Some would claim that it’s not cultural appropriation for Chinese people to copy Irish civilization, because by definition cultural appropriation only occurs when a dominant culture (white) exploits an oppressed culture (Chinese). But wait – the Chinese dominate and/or oppress the people of Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibetans, Uighurs, and their neighbors in India, Vietnam, the Philippines, and elsewhere, and the Irish don’t dominate or oppress anyone.

Oh well – so much for politically correct racial stereotypes.

The reality is that, throughout history, humans have migrated, cultures have mutated, and people have adapted to changing circumstances. And now, with TV and the internet, societies and ethnicities are encountering one another and mixing with ever greater frequency. So who gets to decide what should or should not be allowed in cultural exchanges? Which cultural expressions belong to whom? Should we believe the culture warriors when they insist that we limit our freedom of expression to those forms that match our racial or religious identity?

Maybe we should take ourselves a little less seriously. Maybe instead of being cultural puritans, it’s OK to be human rather than being attached to labels of ethnic authenticity. Maybe it’s time to let go of our over-identification with our current incarnation.

When I googled Khom Loi (Floating Lanterns) I came up with this explanation:

It is good luck to release a sky lantern since it symbolizes your problems and worries floating away. The sky lantern ceremony has come to represent the releasing of one’s deepest fears and desires. It is a symbolic cleansing, a letting go of everything that troubles you. It is also the beginning of a new, enlightened you, with the light illuminating the path of knowledge and righteousness.

We are all floating lanterns, transient beings in the cosmos.

My advice to the Chronicle restaurant reviewer: Lighten up. And float away.

And I intend to check out the delicious Thai food made by white people at Khom Loi restaurant in Sebastopol.

July 23, 2021

Is it better to be in love with a person, or with a cause?

Both can disappoint you. Both can let you down. And both can inspire you and give you a reason to live.

I’m interested in comparing the different forms that devotion can take because this week I’ve been reading two very different works of fiction that do not explicitly address the contrast between these two kinds of love.

The first, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, is on one level a novel about class and the excesses of the Roaring Twenties. But it is also a story about a doomed love affair between two rich people, bootlegger Jay Gatsby and a woman, Daisy Buchanan, who is married to someone else.

The other book I’ve been reading this week is the last book in The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. Although there are some instances of romantic love in The Lord of the Rings, the three books are primarily about the struggle between good and evil and the efforts of several characters, notably the hobbits Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, to devote their lives to the task of saving their civilization through their selfless attempt to destroy the evil Ring of Power.

I’m probably the first person in history to compare and contrast The Great Gatsby and The Lord of the Rings. And I’m probably the last, especially since it is just happenstance that I, likely the only person in the world who ever has or will do so, ended up reading these two novels at the same time. So now that I’ve expressed that absurd bit of self aggrandizement, let’s see what Fitzgerald and Tolkien can teach us about love.

Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan are hardly the best examples of romantic love. They, and most of the other characters in that novel, are shallow, decadent people. While it’s true that Gatsby fell in love with Daisy, it’s probably more accurate to say that he projected his fantasies onto her and then fell in love with the illusion that he had created.

But we’ve all probably done that at one time or another – I know that I have. Are we really in love with the other person, or are we actually in love with our idea of who they are? What happens when we encounter their shadow side – understanding and forgiveness, or splitsville? Is it realistic to expect one person to meet all of our emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual needs?

Realistic or not, Fitzgerald tells us that “…he [Gatsby] had committed himself to the following of a grail [Daisy].” I don’t think that Daisy was worth pursuing, but hey – it’s Gatsby’s story, not mine.

I do feel, however, that the grail that Frodo and Sam were hunting in The Lord of the Rings was worthwhile. Unlike Gatsby’s selfish chase, Frodo and Sam were on a quest to rescue their society from imminent annihilation. Theirs was a journey of self sacrifice, not self indulgence.

One reason that I’ve read The Lord of the Rings so many times, and will read it again, is that it’s a tale about nobility of character; it’s a tale about a kind of love that is a higher calling – a love for one’s community, a love for all life forms. Even the main romantic love interest in The Lord of the Rings, that of elf princess Arwen and Lord Aragorn, is postponed until Aragorn can fulfill his mission on behalf of all living beings. In other words, the love expressed in the actions of Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn is of a lofty nature, unlike the delusional desires of Jay Gatsby.

I’m not suggesting that romantic love is not worthwhile. In The Lord of the Rings, once their adventures were over, Sam married his sweetheart Rosie, and Arwen gave up her immortality to marry Aragorn. And I’m not suggesting that devotion to a cause is always righteous. Once upon a time I devoted myself to what I thought was a noble cause – world peace and enlightenment based upon Buddhism – only to discover hypocrisy and disillusionment. So doing the right thing is not always a clear choice.

If you look at what’s going on today in the worlds of politics, sports, business, social media, and elsewhere, it seems that honor and integrity have been forsaken in favor of selfish desires for money, power, fame, and glory. There are a lot more Gatsbys around the world these days than there are Frodos, Sams, or Aragorns. Or so it seems, anyway. But I suppose that has always been the case.

So maybe it’s not a question of who or what we love, but how and why we dedicate ourselves to our beloved person or cause.

In other words, what (if any) grail are we chasing, and are we doing so in a loving and selfless manner?

July 4, 2021

An important ingredient in comedy is the element of surprise, or unexpected insight delivered with a twist. And that may explain why I had a good laugh yesterday.

I was driving in nearby Marin County for my job when I found myself behind an extra large pickup truck sporting an out-sized American flag waving from a pole at the back of the truck. Usually in my mind I stereotype the driver of such a vehicle as a gun-toting jingoist Republican, and I did so with that driver until I noticed something else at the back of the truck. It was a big, brand-new, red white and blue campaign poster from 1960 with a smiling picture of JFK and the words “Kennedy For President” emblazoned in bold letters at the top of the placard. That photo and slogan were the last message I expected to see behind that truck and flag, and I had to laugh at myself for making an assumption about the driver which turned out to be false.

I think the message that the driver may have intended to convey is that the American flag is not just for conservatives or Republicans, but for everyone. If that was his intention, then he was wise to use a 1960 JFK sign rather than a more recent campaign banner from a Democrat such as Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, or Barack Obama, because a more contemporary presidential advertisement would have made a more partisan point. By choosing Kennedy, the driver was recalling a time when the American flag was more a symbol of unity and community rather than angry right-wing extremism.

I’m neither happy nor surprised about how the flag is abused by some conservative and liberal activists. The biggest domestic threat to our country is from the far right, but the far left is doing its part to tear the nation apart as well. Waving American and Confederate flags, Trump supporters attacked the Capitol of the United States on January 6 of this year to try to overthrow a free and democratic election. Those so-called “patriots” desecrated the flag by their allegiance to a personality cult and by their attempts to destroy democracy.

But some leftists denigrate the Founding Fathers and the American Revolution as promoters of slavery and genocide, and would split us into rival racial identity camps vying for power and influence. They believe that being white is a form of original sin, and that all white people are complicit in “white supremacy” and the oppression of everyone else. Some Black Lives Matter protesters hijack the national anthem and flag at sporting events to object to police shootings of black men.

There will always be those who salute the flag and those who burn it. I do neither. I understand that for some people, especially those of African American or American Indian heritage, the history of this country makes it difficult for them to value or honor this nation and its freedoms. And for some white nationalists, rapid demographic change caused by high rates of immigration represents a threat to their identity and culture.

But government of the people and by the people is by no means assured in this country. Democracy is fragile in the United States and around the world. For all its flaws, I appreciate the U.S. and the sacrifices made by military veterans and by statesmen such as Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln that have allowed this American work-in-progress to continue into the 21st century.

While I’m well aware of the dark side of American history, and the ugliness of current American politics, I choose to focus upon the bright side of this nation: the freedoms of speech, the press, assembly, and religion; peace and prosperity for most people; our national parks; opportunities for health and self advancement that are all too rare in most parts of the world; and, for now at least, free and fair elections.

When John F. Kennedy was elected president in 1960, I was 8 years old, and when he was assassinated in 1963, I was 11. Maybe my fond childhood memories of JFK are just nostalgia for a simpler time. Be that as it may, for me Kennedy still represents optimism, civil rights, and the successful quest to land on the moon. And he represented social progress, in that as a member of two formerly reviled groups (Catholics and Irish immigrants) he could rise to the highest office in the land, similar to the way that Barack Obama also overcame comparable prejudice many years later.

So for me, the 4th of July is a day of thanksgiving, a day of appreciation. And the American flag is an imperfect yet potent symbol of freedom and hope.

JFK for president in 2024! And in the meantime, happy 4th of July, everyone.

June 28, 2021

Last week four jailbirds came into my living room. They were all invited, but they won’t be coming back.

Three of the men had committed serious crimes (murder, statutory rape), and had spent many years in San Quentin Prison before being released in the last two years. Now in their sixties, they’ve repented for their crimes and are now leading constructive lives back in society. They came into my home via a Zoom meeting, in which they told stories of their crimes and rehabilitation.

The fourth jailbird is a wealthy young man who I’ve interviewed two or three times at his beautiful home near San Quentin and a short sailboat ride away from the former penitentiary on Alcatraz Island. This time I interviewed him by phone from my living room because his paranoid belief in conspiracy theories has convinced him not to get a Covid shot. He lives with his parents, and they won’t permit any visitors until he can escape the prison of his mental illness for long enough to get vaccinated against Covid. So I had to conduct my health survey by phone with this particular inmate. I’ll call him James.

It might seem odd to lump a spoiled rich young white guy with three older criminals, two white and one black, who’ve killed or abused other human beings. After all, the young man has not, to my knowledge, ever harmed anyone but himself. But what James has in common with Dwight, Fred, and Gino (their real names) is that all four men have suffered from harsh limitations upon their freedom. Whether those limitations were caused by genetics or dysfunctional family dynamics or stupid youthful mistakes is debatable. What is clear is that, like all of us, these men have made and continue to make choices for which they are responsible.

Dwight, Fred, and Gino were wise enough to participate in San Quentin programs designed to help them heal themselves: anger management, parenting classes, religious and spiritual forums, and Restorative Justice. That latter curriculum teaches its participants to come to grips with the crimes they’ve committed and the impact those misdeeds had on the victims, the families of the victims, the families of the perpetrators, and the community at large. They learn to be accountable to others, and perhaps most importantly, to be accountable to themselves. Most of the younger inmates have too much anger and pain and too little maturity to take advantage of the opportunities that were so helpful to Dwight, Fred, and Gino.

A major factor in the rehabilitation of Dwight, Fred, and Gino is their belief in the possibility of redemption. Dwight and Fred have become devout Christians, and Gino expresses his spirituality through chanting and other means. Gino adds that he has learned to think good, wholesome thoughts. All three have reclaimed their humanity and dignity through service to others and through their connection to God. They’ve learned that though they were punished for their transgressions, no one is eternally damned.

Dwight, Fred, and Gino have graduated from the San Quentin school of hard knocks and are now on parole and leading productive lives in southern California.

James, sadly, still lives in his gilded cage in northern California. He and his parents may be rich, but he suffers from, among other things, a poverty of spirit. He probably needs hope, or God, or some sort of epiphany or spiritual breakthrough, to give him the courage to overcome his psychological challenges.

I suppose we’re all in the dungeon of limited beliefs about who we are and what we’re capable of. So I wish James a successful jailbreak in escaping the shackles and blindfolds of his suffering. He could learn a lot from his three former neighbors at San Quentin.