Substance and Style

When I was a college student, the university presented periodic general assemblies. The guest speakers represented a variety of fields and areas of expertise. Actor Vincent Price. Business leader and best selling author Robert Townsend (Up The Organization). All were noteworthy and accomplished. For the most part, their addresses were informative, interesting and sometimes even inspiring. And if you went to enough of them, you got a quarter (free) 

credit. One of those assemblies was a significant personal experience.

The concept was simple: An informal debate. Two speakers. Each would describe and support one side of the political spectrum. Then each would have one opportunity to rebut the other's position. The guests were important, highly regarded thinkers and writers in the field. James L. Buckley represented the conservative view and Max Lerner, the liberal. These men were highly intelligent, well informed, articulate and great communicators. I felt fortunate, even honored, to listen to them outline the fundamental tenets of each position and compare and contrast them. For a young man trying to formulate a personal political point of view, this was a wonderful opportunity.

I left the assembly hall convinced of one thing and curious about another.

It was crystal clear where my personal life view fit in the political spectrum. I felt a deep sense of relief, as I had been experiencing some turmoil regarding the subject. My curiosity was piqued, however, by the observation that I also preferred the personal style of the gentleman who had represented the political point of view with which I was more comfortable. While both were stylishly dressed, well groomed, articulate and dignified, there were definitely subtle differences. And my preferences regarding points of style, without question, leaned in the same direction as my preferences regarding political points of view. This became, and still is, a chicken/egg question for me. In the political arena, are we first/most attracted to an individual's views or style?

Several years go, a friend asked me, "Who are you more likely to trust, a guy in a business suit or a guy in tie-dye?"  That's an easy one ...

They call me the breeze ...

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by those who choose to live without roots ... on the road. For Halloween, I often dressed up as a hobo. (The picture's of me when I was six or seven.)  My dad worked on the railroad. I quizzed him about the men he found riding in the boxcars and how he dealt with them. I imagined myself sitting with them at night around a campfire, heating (and eating) canned beans and listening to their stories ... where they'd been, what they'd seen, people they'd met.
When I became a young adult, I imagined myself riding a motorcycle up the west coast, from border to border. Finding work along the way. Staying where I wanted to stay. Going when I was ready to go. Naturally, I didn't do those things. I went to school and tried to assume responsible adult roles.
Well, the time has come. I've rented my townhouse, bought a trailer and hit the road. And while a pickup truck and travel trailer is substantially different than a knapsack, I do have everything I own with me. The goal is the same: Stay as long as I want to stay, then move on until I find another place I want to stay. I intend to see a lot of things I've never seen (see the USA in my Chevrolet) and hopefully find a place where I want to settle when I'm ready to.

I'm goin' home
And when I wanna go home
I'm goin' mobile
Well, I'm gonna find a home
And we'll see how it feels
Goin' mobile
Keep me movin'

I can pull up by the curb
I can make it on the road
Goin' mobile
I can stop in any street
And talk with people that we meet
Goin' mobile
Keep me movin'

Out in the woods
Or in the city
It's all the same to me
When I'm drivin' free, the world's my home
When I'm mobile

 Play the tape machine
Make the toast and tea
When I'm mobile
Well I can lay in bed
With only highway ahead
When I'm mobile
Keep me movin'

Keep me movin'
Over 50
Keep me groovin'
Just a hippie gypsy

Come on move now
Movin'
Keep me movin', yeah

-Pete Townshend

A Small Act Of Kindness

It was early one Friday evening. An old friend and I found ourselves in a little college town where we hadn't been since we were freshmen. We'd had dinner at our favorite student hangout and were strolling along the main street reminiscing and noting changes. As we passed a dance club, he asked, "Do you remember the last time we were here?
"Yeah, I do. But not tonight."
"C'mon!" He insisted. "We pledged that the next time we were in town, we'd go dancing here!" He opened the door and stood, waiting for me.
"Look at me!" I'd just gotten a really embarrassing haircut (unintentionally). I was wearing the same terribly outdated clothes I'd been wearing on the roadtrip. And then there was the Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I'd eaten for dinner. (The D&H was a combination hamburger with franks and LOTS of onions.)
He gestured for me to enter the open door. I mumbled a bad word and walked past him into the club.
He danced. I listened to the music. (Great band. Played mostly Doobie Brothers and Neil Young music.) Faintly, in the din of music and conversation, I heard a voice: "David?"  I looked around, but didn't recognize anyone. "David!" There was a hand on my arm. I hadn't expected to run into anyone I knew. Certainly not Susan.
Susan and I grew up in the same town, but hadn't met until we were in college. Her roommate was a friend of mine. Their dorm was near ours, so we crossed paths occasionally. On those occasions, I chatted with her roommate while she looked bored and anxious to get going again. She was gorgeous. And stylish. And intimidating. And it never occurred to me to ask her out.
We found a place in the club to sit down and caught each other up with where we had been and what we had been doing. Suddenly, she jumped up. "Oh, David! I love this song! Dance with me!" I hesitated, but despite my apprehensions, took her hand and we danced. I couldn't believe that a chance to dance with Susan had come at such an inopportune time. Then, mid-dance, a thought exploded in my mind that made me smile:  "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"
In the 40 years since, I've recalled that moment more times than I can even remember. When I've found myself in one of life's valleys, when I've needed some encouragement (or when I hear "Pieces Of April"), I remind myself: "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"

There are no small acts of kindness.

Seaman Family Values

I must have been five or six years old, playing in the front yard of our home in what would best be described as a working class neighborhood. It had been a two bedroom home until my parents added a living room on the front and converted the old living room into a third bedroom. A man approached me and asked if my mother was home. When I said she was, he knocked on the door. He explained to her that he was out of work and was going through the neighborhood hoping to earn some money doing odd jobs. She paused. "Well, we don't pay people to do our work," she said. "We can do our own work. But if you're hungry I'll get you something to eat." He said he was hungry and would really appreciate that. I sat with him under the big old elm tree that dominated our front yard and chatted. Soon my mother returned with BLTs (toasted), potato chips and lemonade for both of us. I don't remember anything we talked about. But I've (obviously) never forgotten what my mother said and did that day. I learned about respect for work, respecting the unemployed and helping those who need it.
I remember being on the roof of that house carrying shingles to my dad while he nailed row after row into place. I don't know how old I was, but we moved from that house when I was eight. I remember my dad putting in a driveway at that house as well as a patio and walkway in the new house we moved to, building shelves for food storage and a small office in the utility room next to the carport and chopping wood in the backyard to burn in our fireplace. I remember his building a "shell" for his 1948 Ford pickup. (It was the first year of the F-Series.) And painting that pickup ... with a brush! "We can do our own work."
I grew up in a labor family. Dad worked for thirty years for Union Pacific Railroad and was an officer in the local B of  RT (Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen). These were proud, hard working people who improved the lives of the union membership in many ways. Valuing work, all kinds of work, became fundamental to my life view.
In Sting's autobiography, Broken Music, he recounts visiting with his dying father:

"I have no idea what to say, so I take his hand in mine and gently massage the soft triangle of flesh between his thumb and his first finger. I haven't held his hand since I was small. They are big square hands, massively knuckled with strong muscular fingers, deeply lined and grooved. My father's hands are not the delicate, expressive hands of an artist, but they have a kind of elegance and so close to death they possess an honest and translucent beauty. They are the hands of a working man."

Give me a job, give me security
Give me a chance to survive

I'm just a poor soul in the unemployment line ...

But I've got the power, and I've got the will
I'm not a charity case …

Make me an offer that I can't refuse
Make me respectable, man …

So like it or not I'll take those
Long nights, impossible odds
Keeping my back to the wall
If it takes all that to be just what I am
Well, I'm gonna be a blue collar man

“Blue Collar Man”

 by STYX

That time when I REALLY didn't know which way was up ...

When we were teenagers, a group of us spent a week at Lake Powell.  Water skiing wasn’t that big a deal. We did that frequently at Lake Mead.  The best part of Lake Powell was the cliffs.  We camped at a different site each night on a constant quest for higher cliffs and new challenges.  As the cliffs got higher, we learned to point our toes so it didn’t hurt our feet (eventually, we just wore our tennis shoes ... it also made the climb back up the cliff easier).  Then, not to let our arms spread out because the water really slapped your arms if you did.  We learned to go in as straight as we could.  It also hurt if you got off sideways.  We learned to spread our arms and legs out after we got into the water so we didn’t go down too deep.  By the end of the week we’d decided to forget that, stay straight as long as we could, and see how deep we could go!  The goal became to go deep enough that you couldn’t see the surface ... absolute darkness.  It’s amazing to put your hand right in front of your nose and not be able to see it.  No hint of light anywhere!  Of course, at that point you don’t know which way’s up ...

Life took care of me.  I sat at the top of the cliff with my buddy, Mike, watching stupid teenage boys jumping into the darkness.  I asked him (because he was the only one there), “If you can’t see the surface, how do you know which way to swim?”  Mike was an accomplished trampoline gymnast.  Looking straight ahead and with absolute calm, he said “You curl up in a little ball and wait.  You’ll start to float toward the surface and you swim in that direction.”  I was shortly really grateful that Mike had been there that day and that I had thought to ask the question.

When I realized I’d accomplished my goal ... no visible surface ... no light ... I panicked a little.  I remembered what Mike had said, but wasn’t serene enough to really “curl up ... and wait”.  I just kind of hesitated until I thought I could feel myself floating and then started to swim.  I expected to start seeing light sooner than I did and questioned the direction I was swimming.  I didn’t have a lot of faith in my ability to hold my breath for long, so when I hesitated again to try to “feel” up, I didn’t really “curl up ... and wait” the second time either.  And naturally, the panic increased.  When I thought I could feel myself floating, I committed to that direction, closed my eyes and swam as hard as I possibly could.  When I broke the surface of the water (at about a 45 degree angle, flailing, gasping, panicked) I was greeted by a dozen teenage boys laughing so hard they could hardly breath.  I must have been a sight.  When I settled down enough to think about it, I realized that I had worked a lot harder and swum a lot farther than I’d needed to because I hadn’t been relaxed enough to really “curl up and wait” to be sure I knew which way to go.

Years later I learned about the Tao and realized that life had provided me with an incredible lesson about being  that day.  “You curl up in a little ball and wait.  You’ll start to float toward the surface and you swim in that direction.”  Life knows what we need and will take us there if we allow it.  We only complicate things by imposing our will.  Like the symbolic fish that are the Yin/Yang, things work best for us if we are at peace enough to feel the current and swim in that direction.  Be still.  Be aware.

Phil Jackson: “The trick is to experience each moment with a clear mind and an open heart.  When we do that, ... life takes care of itself.”

Beliefs vs. Facts

"We see the world, not as it is, but as we are - or, as we are conditioned to see it."
- Stephen R. Covey

Over the last several years, as I've considered many of the things that have been said/written/posted about the president, I've been reminded of the grandmother of a friend of mine.  It seems she loved to listen to Charley Pride on the radio.  She had no recordings and hadn't ever seen him on TV.  She just loved to hear his music on the radio.  When he came to town, the grandkids took her to the concert.  She was thrilled.  When he took the stage, she asked, "Who's that?"
"That's Charley Pride, Grandma!"
She was indignant.  "I'm old, but I'm no fool!  What are you trying to pull on me?"
"Really, Grandma!  Just listen to him sing!"
After a couple of songs, she stood up.  "Take me home. I'm not about to sit here and listen to some black guy pretending he's Charley Pride!"

If you and I always agree ...

... one of us is unnecessary.  In fact, if two people always agree, somebody's just not thinking.  If we're paying attention to what's going on around us and considering it thoughtfully, we will disagree from time to time.  Disagreeing is not a problem.  How we choose to respond to the disagreement may very well create BIG problems.

I've created a list of things that I would do if someone waved a magic wand and put me in charge. I also have a list of things that I would do if I won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. I haven't prioritized my lists ... I'm not THAT delusional.  But there are a couple of things on my list that have been on my mind today, so you get to read about them:

1)  I would make Debate a required course in America's high schools.
     When high school debaters go to a competition, they don't know which side of a question they will be supporting until they walk into the room where they will be competing.  They have to be prepared to argue both sides of the issue.  An informed, engaged electorate would do the same thing in preparation for election day.  And be informed to at least the same level.  How can I expect to make an informed, rational decision if I haven't explored both (all) my options?

2)  I would eliminate from the ballot on election day that little box at the bottom that allows me to
     vote a "straight ticket".
     If I haven't done due diligence in my role, I should at least have to acknowledge to myself my ignorance and negligence and go through the motions of voting for each candidate/issue.  I'm always a little offended (and saddened) when I notice that voting a straight ticket is even an option.

I'm concerned about our use of labels as a substitute for thinking.  It seems to me that once we've hung a label around our necks (politics/religion/music genre), we quit thinking and just do/think what others with the same label seem to do/think.

The more I learn, the more I learn how little I know. -- Socrates