How I Learned About Politics
Michael Moore’s new autobiographical book Here Comes Trouble has a chapter about his experience at Michigan Boys State. Like Moore, I also was selected by my school to attend the annual session of Boys State.
Moore’s experience was interesting. Mine was one of the failures of the program. Oh, I learned about the workings of government all right, but unlike Moore, it put me into a half century long funk about politics from which I’ve emerged only recently. Looking back, I now realize that I had a naïve and romantic notion of how government worked.
According to the organization’s website, “Boys State is an educational program sponsored by the American Legion Departments across the country to help young men learn about government and how it works. Our motto is ‘Learn by Doing.’ The Boys State educational staff's goal is to facilitate the learning process by giving the citizens of Boys State an opportunity to govern themselves, and to run their own state.”
When I arrived at Boys State, I had aspirations of running for “governor.” I also had some support. But there was a faction from Lansing (the state capital) that hit the ground running. I had the innocent notion that we would design and conduct political campaigns once we arrived at the conference, only to discover that the hotshots from Lansing already had their candidate picked, the campaign set up, posters printed, handouts ready, and the caucus organized by the time they hit Boys State. Us naïfs from the rest of the state stood like saplings in the path of an avalanche.
On the evening of the second night I was visited by two large delegates from the Lansing contingent. Anticipating the Godfather movies of the 70’s, we reasoned together. It was pointed out to me that by throwing my support behind the Lansing candidate, I might have a post in his cabinet. Running against the Lansing candidate, on the other hand, was discouraged. They didn’t actually threaten me. They just told me I really didn’t want to do that.
It was an educational evening.
I vaguely remember the Lansing candidate winning in a landslide. That lad has probably gone on to great success in the world as befits someone who had a handle on How Things Work at such an early age. In retrospect I have to admire the initiative and organization (with the exception of the goon squad). I felt at the time that the kid bent what I understood to be the rules, but as life has taught ever since, they remember that you won, not how you won. Just ask George Bush.
I was too much of an idealist at the time to be unaffected by the experience. It soured me on politics for the rest of my life. The perspective of later years has caused me to regret that deeply. Politics in the general sense is the “debate or conflict among individuals or parties having or hoping to achieve power,” and it is inherent in every human endeavor, even in groups as small as two people (aka a “relationship”). Things would have been a lot easier if I had learned that a lot earlier.
I have also learned that some people play by the rules, and some don’t. And some people do neither and make up new rules instead. How successfully you deal with people depends on how rapidly you recognize which group they belong to.
New Year's Book Announcement and Other Comments
In addition to the usual insightful commentary (aka ranting and raving), my blog has included short pieces of fiction for the past couple of years. I have just compiled the stories into a collection titled “Ye Gods!. It will be available in bookstores by the end of February. An e-book version will come out about a month later.
“Ye Gods!” 1. exclamation of surprise 2. collection of short stories ranging from dark whimsy to scathing satire
Warning: this collection contains occasional wry humor, biting political commentary, social criticism, and dire prognostication. Side effects include but are not limited to: laughter, head shaking, and 3 AM epiphanies. Occasional tears have been reported.
Characters are taken from various pantheons (Zeus, Shiva), classical literature/mythology (Icarus), history (Custer), and real life (Bigfoot, space aliens).
This collection is intended to relieve the symptoms of boredom and ennui. It may be taken straight or with a grain of salt. Store in brightly lit areas such as beside a comfortable chair or on a bedside table.
More announcing: The Shining Man’s Wife, the sequel to my novel Frank, will be out later in 2012. Daughters of the World, the final book of the St. Francis trilogy, is scheduled to appear next year.
***
2011 is a year many of us would like to forget. I’d like to extend profound sympathy to all those treated unkindly by 2011: victims of economic misfortune, victims of predators, victims of stupidity, and victims of the political hatred that has characterized much of the year. It is my hope that the world’s genpop will recall the vestigial traces of their professed but unexercised creeds in order to make 2012 better. May the New Year actually be happy!
Shoplifting and the Holiday Spirit
Last year I worked for a while in a hardware store to research a story I was planning. I had never worked retail before so the job was an eye-opener—a lot of retail work is poorly paid drudgery. The experience certainly raised my respect and sympathy levels for retail workers.
I also learned about shoplifters. The store was well set-up for surveillance with wide uncluttered aisles, clear sight lines, and cameras, but there still was theft. I can only imagine what a crowded clothing store must suffer in losses.
Predictably, shoplifting has increased in these tough times. Added is the seasonal spike in the curve when people treat themselves to a little something for Christmas. Stores are packed, clerks are busy, and surveillance systems are overtaxed.
In our modern society, shoplifting seems to be a socially acceptable form of stealing based on the surprising number of people who do it or have done it. According to the National Association for Shoplifting prevention (NASP, www.shopliftingprevention.org), 1 in 11 Americans shoplift. I suspect this statistic reflects habitual shoplifters—the percentage of people who have done it at some point in their lives is apt to be much higher.
For many, shoplifting is similar to cheating on tax returns or ripping off insurance companies with fraudulent claims—it’s the revenge of the little person against the big faceless corporation. The “revenge” is nothing but a rationalization to cloak the fact that shoplifting, tax cheating, and insurance fraud are just different forms of stealing, a crime punishable in some parts of the world by cutting the thief’s hand off.
Shoplifting damages not only the robbed merchant, but also society as a whole. This is the intellectual leap that many people do not take because it requires thinking more than 18.5 seconds into the future. The NASP website lists the following points:
- The higher prices consumers must pay to cover the losses from theft.
- The inconvenience and invasiveness of security measures to consumers when shopping in stores.
- The loss of community jobs when stores are forced to close.
- The loss of local and state sales tax revenue resulting in higher taxes for everyone.
- The added burden on the police and the courts.
- The added financial and emotional hardship placed on families resulting from the arrest of a parent or child.
- The corruption of our youth and our future, when dishonesty is not effectively addressed at its most fundamental level.
Surprisingly, professional shoplifters are a small minority. Also surprisingly, there is no shoplifter profile. Men and women steal in equal numbers. Young and old steal. Interestingly (and also surprisingly), more adults steal than teens.
According to another website, www.preventshopliftingloss.com, only 3% of shoplifters steal as a for-profit enterprise, meaning that the other 97% steal for other reasons, such as personal or social pressure (“Caitlin has, one. I need one, too” or “We gotta keep up with the Joneses”). Another little-publicized reason is the rush that shoplifters feel when they get away with it. This rush is apparently so potent that it rises to the level of addiction, making it very difficult for some people to stop.
Some more interesting facts: shoplifters themselves say they get caught only once in 48 tries and are turned in only half the time. This means that punishment comes only 1 in a 100 times. Those are pretty good odds.
Stores are gearing up for the Christmas season in several ways. Heightened security is one of them. Top items on shoplifter wish lists according to Adweek: steaks (yes, frozen steaks!!), expensive liquor, and electric tools.
Getting back to the adrenaline rush of shoplifting, I can state from personal experience that it doesn’t hit everyone. As a teenager, I once shoplifted a 45 (a record, not a gun). Like a typical teenager, I don’t know why I did it. I had enough money to buy the record. I agonized about my theft for two days before finally sneaking it back onto the store’s shelf. My relief rivaled any shoplifting rush.
That little episode started me on an unrelenting road to populism. As chance would have it, the day after I returned the record, my father happened to be reading the local paper’s account of a shoplifter caught in the act. He then pointedly lectured to me on the interconnectedness of things, how the act of stealing hurt not only the store, but also society as a whole because everyone else would have to pay a little more to cover the store’s shoplifting loss. I say “pointedly” because he was taking a moment to teach, unaware that life had already taught the lesson. At least, I don’t think he knew. Who knows with parents? They always know more than they let on.
Jane Eyre
Near the end of life it is customary to look back, to conduct a personal exit interview, so to speak. Some do this to remember the events that made them. Others spend wakeful nights reviewing the mistakes they have made and wonder where they’d be, had they not made them. Personally, I tend to alternate between the two.
One of my many life mistakes was not reading Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in my formative years. I dimly remember an eleventh grade reading assignment that gave us choices between several novels. I went to the library and paged through the assigned choices. I decided against Jane Eyre, deeming it Victorian chick lit (this term hadn’t been invented then but it describes what I felt). I don’t even remember the book I wound up choosing.
In a belated effort to correct some earlier oversights, I have finally gotten around to reading Jane Eyre. What a read! And what a ride!
The novel has been called many things—a Bildungsroman (generally translated as a “coming of age novel”), a romance, and a social critique with Gothic horror story elements.
Jane Eyre is a book everyone should have read at some point—the earlier in life the better. There are a couple of caveats, however. Modern sensibilities will need to adjust to the excruciatingly minute examination of faces and people. Victorians were judgmental, often basing their thinking on what we would regard unreliable superficialities.
Modern readers will also have to contend with what might be called a florid wordiness. The nineteenth century seldom used one word when ten would do. In those days there were no cinemas, TV, Internet, or video games, so the main source of entertainment was conversation, and it was carried on at a level rarely reached today.
If allowances can be made for those two qualities, Jane Eyre is every bit as much of a page-turner as any thriller written today. Anyone wanting to learn about empowerment should take Jane Eyre as a role model. Her steel and self-reliance in the face of lifelong adversity is matchless.
Quack-Talking
For several years I have been struck by the odd nasal tones employed by many young women from ages 10 to 35. There is no physical, meteorological, or biological shift that could explain the significant numbers. The phenomenon of nasal speech was noted as far back as 1985 by Clark Whelton in his article “What Happens in Vagueness Stays in Vagueness—The decline and fall of American English, and stuff.”
It has gotten worse in recent years.
The main thrust of Mr. Whelton’s essay decries the declining ability of the young to express themselves accurately. The nasal tones were but one symptom: “Even nasal passages are affected by fashion. Quack-talking, the rasping tones preferred by many young women today, used to be considered a misfortune.” Thanks to Mr. Whelton for naming the phenomenon.
A condition that once called for speech therapy but now embraced, “quack-talking” evokes the image of a duck. Almost all children below the age of five sound like ducks. Most kids grow out of it when they reach their teens. At least, that’s the way it used to be. However, quack-talking has now become firmly entrenched. Many women are still doing it well into their thirties.
This nasal mode of speaking grates on the ear, but quack-talking is more disturbing on other levels. It makes an apparently mature women sound like a pre-teen, and this has professional implications. Speaking as the resident Old Guy, it is very difficult for me to lend credence to the words of a thirty-five year old woman who sounds like she’s ten. It just lacks gravitas. There are several commentators on CNN who quack-talk. This is unfortunate because they present otherwise as intelligent and knowledgeable.
Recently I asked an older woman whose opinion I respect why quack-talking was so prevalent. Her theory was interesting. “I’ve noticed it, too,” she said. “I believe it’s a subconscious effort to get people to like them. If they sound like children, they come across as non-threatening and sweet, even innocent.”
Can this be true? I don’t pretend to be a psychologist, but this explanation certainly sounds plausible. Frankly, I can’t think of another reason why an adult would choose to sound like a child. Ideas, anyone?
Destiny
The meeting of the Galactic Federation Council had gone smoothly so far, but the General knew acrimony would soon set in. It was a given that the Environmental faction of the Council would oppose the General’s choice of location to test the Federation’s latest weapon.
The military needed to know how the weapon’s use would affect objects in proximity to the target, the General had argued. Simply blasting a solitary body in the interstellar void would not produce the necessary data. The test range had to include a star system with planets.
The system the General’s team had selected consisted of a middle-aged yellow dwarf star with eight planets orbiting in more or less the same plane. The system was also relatively isolated—no other systems within two parsecs. The chosen system was by far the most ideal test range his researchers had turned up. But there was a problem—the system did have one intelligent species.
The General finished his presentation, retracted his eyestalks, and deformed into his resting place. There was a flurry of movement. Sounds of every conceivable pitch and timbre filled the Great Hall as the Council reacted. The leader of the Enviros, a unimorph like himself, signaled his intent to respond. The Enviros—may their accursed pseudopods lack rigidity at the Mating Moment—categorically resisted any measure that threatened any life form, no matter how primitive.
The Enviro leader formed a cylinder to elevate (the General noted the flabbiness of his shape with disdain). He began. “It is the responsibility of advanced species to nurture those that are still becoming. The Federation has always done this. It is the main corollary to the principle that all life is precious.”
Eyes, eyestalks, and sensory organs of every description turned toward the General to hear his response. The head of the Federation’s military rose in a tightly formed, perfectly symmetrical cylinder and said, “I would remind the Councilor of the long struggle we fought with the Nanobites, the vicious bacterial scourge of Rigel IV. What was so damn precious about them? If we had not discovered the dematerializer, we might well have lost the war.”
Thanks to the Federation’s new weapon, there was now no more Rigel IV, and smaller versions of the dematerializer had effectively wiped out the remaining Nanobite colonies.
Eyestalks etc. swiveled back toward the Enviro Councilor. “That was a different matter,” he said. “I concede the General’s point that enemy species are not precious. I was referring to our constitutional duty to life forms that either are presently intelligent or on the way to sentience.”
“Councilor,” the General responded, “it is a long established scientific fact that sentience is strictly a matter of accident. Sentience is not inevitable. Some species develop it, some don’t.” The General’s mien assumed a rictus that indicated humor was to follow. “I couldn’t help but notice that my esteemed colleague enjoyed the crilla served at lunch today, despite knowing that the tiny beasts might one day become intelligent.”
Eyestalks etc. swung back to the Enviro Councilor for his response. The Enviro extended two pseudopods and let them droop, the unimorph expression of regret. “Unfortunately, the system the General has selected for his test range contains several species that are already crudely sentient. One species actually qualifies as intelligent.”
“The species in question has no advanced technology,” the General replied. “It hasn’t even discovered interstellar propulsion.”
“That is not a criterion,” the Enviro pointed out. “There are several Federation member species that have no technology because they do not need it. Their mental powers are that advanced.” He nodded in the direction of the Council President, a mentis, a pyramid-shaped being whose mental powers could replicate any feat of technology.
The Enviro leader had a point. The General could feel the battle slipping away and resorted to the plan he had hoped to avoid because of its costs. He asked, “I understand my colleague’s concern, but I would remind the Council again of the importance of this new weapon. What if we resettle the species in question? My legal attaché informs me that there are several precedents for this. As a matter of fact, one of the species in the target system was itself a product of relocation.”
No Council member wanted to appear soft in the wake of the near-debacle of the Nanobite War. Even the Enviro faction had backed the campaign against the vicious life form. The Enviro leader asked the mentis for a short review of the precedents the General had referenced. The President obliged, and after a tedious recitation of ten precedents the Enviros were finally satisfied.
The faction’s leader formed again and said, “Thank you, President. But please note that the species in each of the cited precedents voluntarily agreed to be resettled. There were no forced relocations. Therefore I propose the following: if the species agrees to be relocated, then I propose that the General’s request be granted. If the species does not agree, then the General will unfortunately have to continue his search.”
The General’s hearts sank. Most species have a powerful bond to their home planet and seldom relocate voluntarily. Odds were that his proposal would fail. Oh well, the universe was large. He’d find a suitable test range.
The General, the Enviro leader, and three at-large Council members were appointed to the Committee formed to negotiate with the species in question. The Committee took a small hyperspace jumper to the General’s proposed target and beamed up several members of the species (mammals, that is, beings who incredibly bore their young in an internal sack).
The mammals were initially delighted to learn of other life forms in the universe (something they had long suspected). However, when the Federation’s real agenda was revealed, the mammals were shocked and retreated to caucus among themselves. They returned with a barrage of questions about the relocation process, the proposed new home, and how many of them would actually be relocated. The Committee assured them that all willing members of their species would be accommodated and gave a hologram presentation of their new home, a close match selected from a catalogue of habitable but as yet uninhabited planets.
The mammals caucused again, and then reconvened. To the Committee’s utter astonishment, the mammals agreed to the relocation with enthusiasm, but requested time to canvass their population. Within two revolutions of their planet, the mammals reported back, saying that their people had voted overwhelmingly in favor of relocation.
***
The Federation command vessel popped out of hyperspace into normal space. A cruiser equipped with the new test weapon appeared alongside, followed in quick succession by three ships bearing technicians, scientists, and observers.
After shaking off the hyperdrive hangover, the General allowed himself a brief moment of celebration. All told, things had gone well. The Council had approved his proposal, relations with the Enviro faction had actually gotten a little better, and the relocation of the mammals had gone much more smoothly than expected.
He extended an eyestalk to peer at the target, a pretty blue sphere with white hydrogen-oxygen vapor drifting through its atmosphere. The scientists had suggested dematerializing the mammal’s home planet first, just to spare the few who chose to remain the unpleasant sight of the other planets in the system winking out one by one.
He ordered the engineering team to ready the new Federation weapon, a cannon version of the dematerializer. Instead of dropping a bomb on the target, the new weapon fired a ray, permitting much more precise targeting.
The General glanced at the ship’s chronometer. It was time. He gave the signal and watched as the system’s third planet vanished.
***
At the same time their old world was being dematerialized, the transplanted mammals were happily exploring their new planet. Its three moons would take some getting used to, but all in all, it was a far more pleasant world than they had imagined. It was actually a big improvement over the one they had left. There was only one predator to fear, but the huge reptile was so slow and stupid that evasion was easy.
Better, there was no belligerent land-dwelling species to foul the clean water with the explosions of incessant warfare and the detritus of their society.
Better yet, there were no nets to occasionally sweep them up as collateral fodder.
Best of all, the fish were delicious and plentiful.
The dolphins were very happy.
Author’s note: this story was inspired by the marvelous opening number in the movie version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
My Penn State Grandfather
Last night I had a visit from my paternal grandfather. I was surprised to see him, seeing as how he died in 1967. He was my favorite grandparent, kindly and full of stories. He looked just as I remembered him—wiry build, thick shock of white hair, face lined with wrinkles.
John D. (Jack) Elder was a systems engineer for the old Michigan Central Railroad and was stationed in my hometown of Niles, Michigan. In his college days he was the shortstop on the Penn State baseball team. He was also the starting quarterback on the Penn State football team in 1902 and 1903. That is what occasioned his visit.
The old man eased himself gingerly into the recliner next to my desk. “Steve, what in hell is going on at my alma mater?” he inquired delicately.
“I’m not sure, Grandpa,” I replied. “All I know is what I see on TV and read in the papers.”
“How reliable is that?”
“Like back in the day. The slant of the news depends on the slant of the newscaster.”
“Some things don’t change,” he observed. “Anyway, there have always been men who have buggered boys. What I don’t understand is how it was handled—by both the guy who reported it and my school. In my day we would have tarred and feathered the bugger and run him out of town on a rail.”
“That’s called rushing to judgment nowadays, Grandpa,” I replied. “I think quite a few people would approve of your approach, but things have changed. We protect the rights of the accused as zealously as the rights of the victim, even when we think the accused doesn’t deserve to have these rights. Lawyers have become extremely powerful. They instill mortal terror in people.”
“Sounds more like social cowardice to me. So, it took twelve years to report it?”
“Apparently. A lot of people are asking that same question.”
The old man hoisted himself out of the chair, every joint popping, and parted with, “Frankly, son, I’m glad I was long gone before this happened. It’s very disappointing.”
With that, he faded back into the safety of eternity. I am now almost as old as my grandfather was when he died. I’ve thought about his words all day. I think I understand how he feels. I mean, about the ‘glad to be gone’ part.
The Crow
It had been following them for the past four days. As soon as they left the house in the morning for the mile and a half walk to their small country school, it was there, never getting close, but at the same time never letting them out of its sight.
It was following them now. The look in its eye was unreadable. The boy looked back over his shoulder. He felt that the look was unfriendly.
The boy glanced at his older brother. Jarod seemed totally oblivious to the silent black shape behind them. That was not unusual—Jarod was usually unaware of anything that didn’t require his immediate attention. His brother was twelve, bold and brash, his frame already hinting at the large sturdy man to come.
The boy was just ten, a quiet soul who thought about what he said before he said it, and about what he did before he did it. His attitude toward the world was gentle, but he would defend himself if he had to, and if he couldn’t, it was known that Jarod would back him up.
In return, the boy helped his older brother by mentioning possible consequences that Jarod hadn’t considered or didn’t care about. If Jarod did something anyway, he knew that his younger brother wouldn’t rat him out. Most of the time, the unspoken arrangement worked well.
As they walked along, the boy got more and more nervous. There were now several black shapes trailing after them, flitting silently from branch to branch. Crows were normally a noisy bunch, but these uttered not a sound. They were intently focused. There were no random exploratory flights off to the side, no pecking at things to check edibility. Nothing distracted their attention from the boys. It was most un-crowlike.
The boy nudged his brother. “Hey Jarod, let’s take the flat way home today.”
The flat way led across a field and then through a small wood, hardly more than a copse. The path they usually took skirted the bluffs overlooking the river.
“Nah, I’m hungry. And I got homework.” Jarod’s crafty sideward glance told the boy that the homework part was BS.
“Fine,” the boy agreed reluctantly. He looked back over his shoulder. There were now at least twenty large crows patiently following them.
“Jarod, look behind us. That’s really weird.”
Jarod glanced back and said, “Just a bunch of stupid crows.” He bent down to pick up a rock. The boy grabbed his arm and said, “Please don’t do that. Let’s just get home.”
Jarod examined his brother closely enough to see genuine worry. Normally he would have gone ahead and did what he wanted to do anyway, but for once he acquiesced.
“Whatever. Bet I could hit one again, though.”
You probably could, the boy thought. And that was the problem. On the way home last week they had come across a pair of crows picking away at a dead squirrel on the path. Jarod had thrown a rock at the birds and hit one of them. The crow had squawked loudly and tried to fly away, but it couldn’t. The rock had broken its wing. The other crow had escaped to the safety of the trees.
In the way that boys often do, devoid of purposeful malice but also unmindful of inflicted harm, curious yet thoughtless of consequence, unconsciously wishing to assert dominance over a smaller creature but heedless of how the creature might feel, Jarod had followed the wounded crow, chucking a couple more stones at it before picking up a stout stick to poke at it and kill it. The boy had tried to stop his brother, but Jarod had shrugged him off, asking him what was the matter with him? It was just a dumb old crow. As they had walked away from the murder scene, the boy looked back to see the other crow drop down out of the tree and push at the dead one, and then scream loudly. Jarod didn’t even turn around. By the time they got home, Jarod had completely forgotten the incident, but the boy had replayed the scene over and over in his mind until deep into the night.
They kept walking without talking. The path started to steepen as they approached the bluffs. It would rise over eighty feet by the time they reached the crest where the river below had carved an oxbow turn into the bluff. The riverbanks were covered with loose rocks, broken tree trunks, and the ubiquitous collection of discarded tires.
As the path ascended, the birds became more agitated, occasionally letting loose short squawks. A cold finger of fear prodded the base of the boy’s skull and walked slowly down his spine.
“Uh, Jarod. Look.”
The flock of crows had drawn closer, their beady black eyes fixed upon the boys.
Jarod grunted and shrugged. “”Wonder what they’re up to. Must be a dead animal at the top.”
“Let’s go a little faster.”
“What’s wrong with you, bro? You afraid of some stupid birds?”
By now they had reached the top. Here the path ran close to the edge of the bluff with a drop-off that went straight down to the rocks. The boy instinctively stayed away from the edge, but his older brother strode fearlessly along, his feet barely a foot from the void.
There was a sudden whistle of large wings as several crows flew closely over their heads and lit on the ground about twenty feet ahead of them. The boys stopped. The remainder of the flock landed on the ground behind them. All the birds stood facing them, motionless, waiting.
“Jarod, I don’t like this. What are they doing?” the boy asked nervously.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Jarod answered. “But they’re not going to be there for long.”
He bent down to pick up some throwing stones. As he straightened, the boy thought he saw a shadow approach his brother from the rear. A strange look came into Jarod’s eyes. His fingers relaxed and the stones fell to the ground.
“Jarod?”
The boy reached out to touch his brother on the shoulder. Jarod’s head snapped around and he eyed his brother, his head moving from side to side in short jerky movements.
“Jarod?” the boy asked again, his voice shaking.
Jarod sudden spun around to face the cliff. He bent down and extended his arms. With a powerful downbeat, his arms started flapping as he ran to the edge and launched himself into the air. The boy was frozen with horror as Jarod disappeared. A couple of seconds later he heard a muffled thud. Fearfully he inched towards the edge and peered cautiously over. Jarod‘s broken body was draped over a large rock at the river’s edge. A small pool of blood was starting to form under his head.
He felt one of the crows fly past him to sail in narrowing circles down to the dead boy below. It landed beside the body and gave three shrill screams that sounded strangely like triumph.
Quaking with fear, the boy crawled back from the edge and turned around. The crows had formed a semicircle around him and were staring at him silently.
As the boy stared back at the crows, he suddenly understood. He knew he should have stopped Jarod from tormenting the crow last week. At the very least, he should have tried harder than he actually did. But he hadn’t. Tears filled his eyes and he wept, wept for the loss of his brother, wept for the suffering of the crow and its cruel death, and lastly, wept for himself for he felt sure that the crows would have him follow his brother into death.
When his tears were finally exhausted, he drew a halting breath. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. I’m so sorry.”
He sat and waited. The crows started to caw, squawk, chide, and squabble. The cacophony went on for several minutes until one crow emitted a piercing scream. The flock fell silent.
The boy sat on the ground for an hour, numb with horror and grief, while the crows kept vigil. Finally he crawled back to the edge of the drop-off for one last look at the shattered body of his brother. Then as one, the flock rose and flew away, except for a single crow that remained behind. It was the one that had flown down to inspect Jarod’s body, but the boy had no way of knowing that. The birds all looked alike.
The boy dragged himself home and explained to his heartbroken parents that his brother had stumbled and had fallen over the cliff. His story was believed because Jarod was known to be a daredevil.
Those were the last words the boy ever spoke. The crow took up residence in the large oak tree next to the house. It is still there.
Education in America
CNN’s Fareed Zakaria did a special on education on Sunday, November 6th. I have the utmost respect for Zakaria and regard him as the most insightful commentator on TV. Amidst the commentary was this shocking statistic: “Half of our teachers graduate in the bottom third of their class.” If this is true, God help us. What it means is that we are entrusting the education of our young to the dregs of the education system.
The American education system is in trouble. Everyone knows it. All kinds of ideas and remedies are floating around out there. Bill and Melinda are throwing money at the problem like crazy. Sadly, the system is beyond fixing under the prevailing American mindset. Here’s why.
In most other countries, teaching is a respected and honored profession, but not in America. This country does not place a premium on education, and that’s an unassailable fact. We say instead, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” College education courses are historically famous for being soft. Bright kids are encouraged to go into medicine or law, or even business—any profession where serious money can be made. The budding Bernie Madoffs have society’s respect, not the local third grade teacher.
After listening to Zakaria’s description of the intense competition in Finland to get into the teaching profession, the description of the rigorous training Finnish teachers receive, and the description of the ongoing training and evaluation they undergo, it is no surprise that Finnish society reveres teachers and pays them well. In contrast, we have little reverence for our teachers, and that is reflected in their paychecks.
America no longer values the future enough to prepare for it. We no longer make tough decisions based on the long-term benefit. We make decisions based solely on short-term cost. It’s why most of our electrical lines are overhead instead of underground. It’s why our companies are run for the sake of investors and not for the long-term health of the company.
Americans do not want to commit the effort, time, and money to a training system that will produce what the Finns turn out. If such a system happens to emerge from the Gates Foundation research, fine, but it’s not going to come from the entrenched Department of Education or the teacher’s unions that are primarily concerned with preserving the status quo.
We have not concentrated on training teachers with a deep fundamental understanding of their subject. Our current predilection for political correctness and low expectations (higher expectations might damage tender psyches) does not equip students with either the prescience to understand the value of knowledge or the desire to acquire it.
Zakaria’s program revealed that the Finns and the South Koreans turn out good students with vastly different systems. What the systems have in common is good teachers. The show also mentioned the fact that Finland and South Korea have the advantage of relatively homogeneous societies. America does not. Only 4% of Finnish students live in poverty. A full 20% of American students do. This fact alone brings a host of societal problems to American schools, not the least of which is an almost universal discipline problem. Many of our high schools are glorified detention centers that warehouse children until Mom and Dad drag home from 12-hour shifts, or from other activities, too tired or detached to check on Junior who is in his room using his computer not for the great research tool that it could be, but to update his narcissistic and self-centered Facebook page or to send pictures of his genitals to his girl friend. Think that happens in a South Korean home?
Then there is the flawed structure of our schools. If there is a complaint, odds are that a spineless administration will support the helicopter parent (“My Johnny would never do that!”) or the kid. Rarely the teacher.
And finally, the home front. Many American children, regardless of family wealth, receive little training in manners or decorum at home. Teachers are expected to turn little savages into semblances of human beings with more resistance than support from parents. Add to this the decades-old American schoolyard tradition of ridiculing or picking on the kids who actually do want to learn and behave, and you have a Lord of the Flies scenario. Why would someone in his right mind want to attempt instruction in such an environment?
Without fundamental changes in the American attitude toward school, there is scant hope for improvement. Without this basic attitude adjustment, any effort to correct the educational system will be both superficial and inconsequential.
What the Gnu Knew
“Do you smell it?” Whitebeard asked.
The young female wildebeest raised her nose and sniffed. “Yes, Grandpa. It smells like water. It’s the river, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. We’ll cross tomorrow.
“Grandpa, I want to cross with my friends.”
The old gnu shook his grizzled head. “No. Stay with me.”
The Grumeti River was full of hungry crocodiles lying in wait for the annual migration of the wildebeest and zebras. Last year was his granddaughter’s first crossing, and he had kept her safe by staying in the middle of the herd. She was too young to know what the screams at the front of the herd meant.
It was time for a lesson.
“Do you remember the nursery rhyme your mother taught you, Quickfoot?”
“’Course I do.” The young gnu closed her eyes and recited
Logs with eyes, bad surprise,
So is wind that talks.
If grass tips waver, don’t stop to savor
The smell of tender stalks.
“Very good,” Whitebeard said. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“My friend Bighorn said it’s just a nonsense rhyme. His mother made him learn it.”
“Uh huh. By the way, have you seen Bighorn lately?”
Quickfoot tossed her head impatiently. She could tell that her grandfather was in a teaching mood. He never would just tell her something, but kept asking her questions until the right words came out of her mouth. It was annoying, but on the other hand, she did tend to remember the lesson.
The old gnu asked another question. “I bet your friends want to be the first across the river, don’t they?”
“Well, sure. It’s cool to stand there and watch the herd slog through all that muddy water. The water is nice and fresh for the first ones.”
“I guess it’s important to be cool, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Everybody knows that,
Grandpa. Why don’t you?” Quickfoot was still young enough to think that her
friends knew more than the grown-ups.
“Oh, I do, sweetheart, but you
know what’s even more important than cool? Staying alive, that’s what. Do you
know what the ‘logs with eyes’ are?”
“Trees don’t have eyes, and a log is just a dead tree,” said Quickfoot, proud of her knowledge.
“’Logs with eyes’ are crocodiles, Quickfoot. They look like logs floating in the water until they raise their heads. Then you can see their eyes and the rows of sharp teeth. That’s why they are a bad surprise.”
Quickfoot shuddered. She had no idea that’s what the rhyme meant. Now she realized what the commotion was at the edge of the herd when they crossed the rivers. She also realized that she hadn’t seen Bighorn since the final crossing at the end of last summer, and she’d been wondering why none of her friends had mentioned him. She promised her grandfather that she would cross with him.
The next day the vast herd reached the Grumeti River as Whitebeard had predicted. Quickfoot was milling around with a group of her friends when a young male named Longtail asked, “Look, Quickfoot, isn’t that your grandfather over there?”
Whitebeard was standing several yards away. The old gnu was one of the herd leaders. Longtail thought he might challenge him next year after he grew a little bigger and stronger. Quickfoot’s grandfather was old, but still formidable.
Whitebeard tossed his head in the “come here” gesture. The granddaughter thought briefly about pretending she hadn’t seen him, but she remembered that she’d said she would cross the river with him. She pawed the ground, annoyed at having to leave her friends. Her foot kicked up a little cloud of dust that joined the big cloud from thousands of hooves pounding the dry ground. Quickfoot gave a snort to clear her nostrils and made her way to her grandfather’s side.
“Come with me, Quickfoot. I want you to see this.” Whitebeard led her to a rise off to the side of the migratory path that sloped down to the river and said, “See how low the river is? There hasn’t been much rain this spring. This is good for us because the river is not as wide, so we won’t be in the water as long. Also, there is less river for the crocodiles to hide in. Now watch. The first gnus are getting ready to cross.”
Quickfoot saw her friends make their way to the front of the herd, prancing and watching each other. Suddenly Longtail charged into the river. Several of her friends followed, and the entire herd began to move as a whole. Upstream, five logs pushed off the shore and began moving rapidly toward the animals. A long knobby tail suddenly thrashed in the water and Longtail disappeared beneath the surface. Then the other logs grew eyes and teeth, and huge jaws clamped down on more wildebeest. As more and more of the herd entered the water, Quickfoot saw that the crocodiles were picking off the animals on the edges of the moving mass. Now she understood why her grandfather didn’t want her up front.
“Let’s go now,” Whitebeard urged. “We’ll join the herd and work our way toward the middle before we get into the water.”
A little later Quickfoot and Whitebeard were standing safely on the other side of the Grumeti River. They were soon joined by Quickfoot’s mother Goodeyes, who was happy to see them safe. Quickfoot asked, “Mama, remember that nursery rhyme you taught me? The one that begins with ‘logs with eyes’?”
“Of course, dear. Why do you ask?”
“I know now what the ‘logs with
eyes’ are, but what does the next line mean?”
“’Wind that talks’ means wind that brings us news. Remember what I taught you about smells? How certain animals have smells? The smells are the news. They tell us about everything around us, like danger.”
At that moment the wind shifted direction. Whitebeard raised his head and sniffed. “And that is lion!” he said. They looked around. While they were talking, the herd had moved off quite a ways, leaving them standing by themselves. Gnus should not do that on the open plains.
Goodeyes said, “Quickfoot, do you remember the next two lines? ‘If grass tips waver, don’t stop to savor the smell of tender stalks?’ It means you should watch the grass. If you see it move, it means there is something in there trying to hide.”
“Like over there, Mama?”
Under a group of trees the tips of the tall grass were moving, even though the wind was not blowing at the moment.
Goodeyes cried, “Exactly like that! Run!”
The three gnus started running as fast as they could. Suddenly a pair of lionesses burst out of the grass after them. A gnu can run as fast as a lion, but the lion reaches its top speed sooner, which means that if the lion does not catch the gnu within the first hundred yards or so, the gnu has a chance to get away. Unfortunately, the three gnus had let the lions get closer than they should. As they ran toward the herd, Whitebeard look back over his shoulder and saw that the lionesses were gaining. He slowed down and the two cats soon caught him.
As they ran toward the safety of the herd, Quickfoot and Goodeyes did not realize that Whitebeard was no longer with them. The herd, alerted to the presence of the two cats, wheeled to face the enemy, the larger males standing at the front with their horns lowered.
The herd watched sadly as Whitebeard fought bravely, but he was no match for two hungry lionesses. The battle was soon over.
“I thought Grandpa could run faster than that,” Quickfoot said.
“He can, dear. He was one of the fastest gnus in the herd.”
“Then how did the lionesses catch him?”
“You know the Gnu Story, don’t you? The one your grandfather told me when I was young like you, and I told you?”
Quickfoot shuffled her feet. She remembered something about a cheetah, but she hadn’t been paying very close attention.
“I forgot it, Mama.”
“Quickfoot, you should listen. When older gnus are telling you something, it’s usually for a reason. The story goes like this—a cheetah is chasing two gnus. One gnu says, ‘We’re dead. We can’t outrun a cheetah.’ The other one says, ‘I don’t have to outrun the cheetah. I just have to outrun you.’”
“Oh.”
There was a long pause. Then it dawned on the young gnu what her mother was trying to tell her.
“Oh!”
“That’s right, dear. Your grandfather let the lionesses catch him so we could get away.”
Quickfoot looked down sadly. She had learned a lot today.
“Uh, Mama? Do you know any other rhymes?”
The End
For Clancy Ehnat on her 9th birthday.
