tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56859159513320942582024-03-13T04:37:00.888-04:00RukDing!R U kidding? Yes, and no.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-39348435982189601602020-09-29T14:27:00.002-04:002020-09-29T14:27:20.414-04:00THE MORAL IMPLICATION OF THE AVENGERS RISK IN "Captain America: Civil War"In Captain America: Civil War, the Avengers engaged mercenaries in a densely populated area of Lagos, Nigeria, to retrieve a bioweapon from villains. This could easily have led, and did in fact lead, to the death of innocent civilians. Was it morally permissible for the Avengers to take this risk? <br /><br />After explaining the doctrine of double effect, I will argue that per the doctrine it was morally permissible for the Avengers to take this risk because the harm was a side effect of pursuing a worthy, weightier goal. Next, I will develop an objection to that position, namely that the double effect principle does not adequately incorporate the moral intuitions involved, resulting in the improper or insufficient distinction between intentional conduct and foreseeable unintended conduct. For a response to this objection, I will describe how it fails to appreciate the higher risk here—the discharge of a bioweapon in an urban area. I will explain why this response is satisfactory with both Kantian and consequentialist considerations. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Doctrine of Double Effect </b></div><br />According to the doctrine or principle of double effect, sometimes it is permissible to cause a harm as a side effect (or “double effect”) of bringing about a good result even though it would be impermissible to cause such a harm as a means of achieving that good result. (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (hereinafter, “SEP”), “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2). Philosopher Joseph Mangan (1949) asserts four requisite conditions for its application: <br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">(1) the object of the action itself is good (or at least indifferent);<br /> <br />(2) the good effect is intended, not the evil effect;<br /> <br />(3) the good effect is not produced by means of the evil effect; and<br /> <br />(4) the reason for permitting the evil effect is sufficiently grave that the resultant benefit adequately offsets the harm. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2).<br /> <br /></blockquote>For instance, in your causing the death of a person who is pushing a victim off a cliff, the double effect principle permits you to incidentally cause the death of the attacker as a side effect of pursuing the good end of saving the victim. However, the instrumentality itself must not cause death for the sake of a good end—here, for instance, that your intervening does not simply shoot the attacker in the head; whereas it would be permissible to pull the victim away even if that foreseeably causes the attacker to fall to her death. The benefit of saving the innocent victim’s life is a proportionately grave reason to allow the foreseeable death of the attacker or risk thereof.<br /><br />Therefore, the cause of the harm is not part of an agent's means to such an extent that it must count as instrumentally intended to bring about the good end. Some find this doctrine initially plausible because of its intuitive appeal. The permissible harm is viewed as a merely foreseen side effect, perhaps regretful, when urgency makes the side effect unavoidable and risk is not increased. It is akin to a forced cost-benefit analysis—situationally consequentialist. <br /><br />This contrasts with what is deemed morally impermissible in causing harm. A common example is the terror bomber who kills civilians to weaken the resolve of the enemy—the civilian’s deaths are intentional. Whereas the tactical bomber aiming at military targets foresees civilian deaths as an unintended consequence of his actions. Terror bombing is impermissible; tactical bombing is permissible (though some will disagree, citing inadequate reflection—e.g., on Kantian ideals—or insufficient emotional engagement). (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2). <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>It Was Morally Permissible For The Avengers To Take This Risk </b></div><br />Several Avengers—Captain America, Black Widow, Falcon, and Scarlet Witch—were on a mission gathering intelligence in Lagos, Nigeria, when a truck rammed inside the Center of Infectious Diseases. The villain Brock Rumlow escaped with a bioweapon. The Avengers tracked him to a market, where a fight occurred. Brock suddenly decided to commit a suicide bombing, perhaps hoping to kill Captain America, too. In a reflex move, Scarlet Witch contained the blast with telekinesis, but it damaged a nearby building, killing several Wakandan humanitarian workers inside. <br /><br />Applying the principle of double effect, the good object of the Avengers actions was to achieve the higher goal of retrieving a bioweapon from villains. Although some civilian harm was foreseeable, it was certainly not intended, and the grave matter of preventing massive casualties by deployment of a bioweapon (there or elsewhere) outweighed the civilian harm foreseeable at the time the Avengers decided to act. <br /><br />Also, the Avengers avoid culpability because the suicidal blast itself was not foreseeable, as it was a non-rational, superseding cause, and because the Scarlet Witch’s action to contain the explosion was reflexive, without time to deliberate. Citizens impliedly consent to a system where collateral damage is to be avoided or minimized, although not at all costs. The Wakandans weren’t citizens of Nigeria, but they necessarily consent to rely on their hosts system. In fact, if the battle didn’t occur there, it still could have happened in Wakanda or elsewhere. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>An Objection to The Avengers Taking the Risk </b></div><br />The double effect principle does not adequately incorporate the moral intuitions involved because independently grounded moral considerations implicitly influence how we distinguish between means and side effects in the first place. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 4). Application of the principle to the Lagos battle fails to look squarely at the result—either way, the Wakandans’ deaths was precipitated by the Avenger’s actions. <br /><br />It’s almost as if the principle is misused to justify the means because the goal must be achieved. We are inclined to describe a harmful result as a merely foreseen side effect when we believe that it is permissibly brought about. We are also inclined to describe a harmful result as part of the agent's means when we believe that it is impermissibly brought about. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2). <br /><br />Perhaps it is the “Side Effect Effect” that is at play. Complying with a norm while performing an impermissible act involves an intention in the compliance. Conversely, when one violates a norm incidentally in performing a permissible act, it merely involves knowingly violating a norm because one foresees the harm and knows of it but does not intend it. People intuitively feel that intent is closer to objectionable harm than is tolerating harm. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2). If one is somewhat physically removed from the situation, one’s active brain areas are those associated with math and consequentialist thinking, whereupon one tends to assess a harm as a side effect. If closer to the physicality, then the emotional center and deontological reasoning areas are activated, whereupon one tends to assess a harm as intentional. <br /><br />In Lagos, it was an inherently dangerous situation, but in applying the principle of double effect, one can lose sight of the immorality of causing so many deaths in absolute numbers. Viewing potential civilian victims as mere collaterals is as erroneous here as it would be in other areas that the Avengers have caused such damage and death—Washington D.C., New York, and Sokovia. The battle in Lagos was avoidable, so the Wakandan deaths were avoidable. They or the relevant authorities could have decided to battle on another day (or place). Otherwise, the Avengers’ causing civilian deaths, though not intentional, was culpable and at best grossly negligent. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A Response to this Objection </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Notwithstanding, the best response to this objection is that battle is always inherently dangerous, wherever it occurs, and in this case the highest and most immediate risk was of the bioweapon discharging there. Given the exigency of the situation, the Avengers had to try to retrieve the weapon. Also, they did in fact get the bioweapon back and should be given credit for saving many lives—if not then, then in the future, as it could have happened in a different city, a denser city, and perhaps even the capital of Wakanda. <br /><br />This response is satisfactory because it would be safer for the Avengers or any force to assume that the villain’s intent was to use the bioweapon in that city as a terror weapon. In fact, if the perpetrator was willing to commit suicide with a blast, then employing a bioweapon was just as possible. T.M. Scanlon (2008) asserted that the appeal of the principle of double effect is, fundamentally, illusory, while the Kantian appeal is real. An agent's intentions are relevant to moral assessments of the way in which the agent deliberated. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 2.3.2). Per Kantian logic, if there is no bad intent, then the actor is not responsible for the secondary affect. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Applying Walzer’s “Supreme Emergency” Argument </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>We can look at how Philosopher Michael Walzer’s doctrine of “supreme emergency” might apply to the Legos battle. Walzer argues that the terror bombing of German cities by Allied forces in World War II was morally permissible in its first year because it was necessary to prevent a “supreme emergency” – the conquest of all of Europe by the Nazis. First, the Allies were engaged in a just war. There was a just cause legitimately authorized with the right intention that was proportionate, necessary, and had a reasonable chance of success. <br /><br />As for the necessity of the terror bombing itself, one could argue that the victims may be common citizens but were not innocent of the wrongs the Allies were fighting against. However, the Allies ultimately devastated many German cities, killed about 600,000 civilians, and seriously injured another 800,000 to terrorize the German people into forcing their leadership to surrender. (SEP, “Terrorism”, 2.3.2). However, it is a stretch to argue the realistic complicity of so many people over of varied backgrounds and geography, and so the impact on this analysis is de minimus. Also, the Germans should have tried to minimize civilian deaths per the Rules of Customary International Humanitarian Law. Each party to the conflict must, to the extent feasible, remove civilian persons and objects under its control from the vicinity of military objectives. (SEP, “Doctrine of Double Effect,” 4). For example, Britain removed many children from London during German bombing there. Nevertheless, the number of German deaths would still be very high from the Allied bombing, leaving our analysis substantially unaffected here, too. <br /><br />A better argument is to concede the civilians’ innocence but to argue that attacks on them are nevertheless justified, either by their consequences on balance, or by some deontological considerations. (SEP, “Terrorism”, 2.3.1). For instance, in exceptional circumstances, considerations concerning consequences of not resorting to terrorism may be so weighty as to be overriding. (SEP, “Terrorism,” 2.3). Here, the Allies were faced with “the survival and freedom of political communities—whose members share a way of life, developed by their ancestors, to be passed on to their children,” which “are the highest values of international society.” <br /><br />Not every case of oppression, foreign rule, or occupation, however morally indefensible, amounts to a moral disaster warranting application of the “supreme emergency” doctrine. However, when a nation is trying to exterminate an entire people or to “ethnically cleanse” them from its land, it becomes a moral disaster warranting terrorism, e.g., terror bombing, as a method of opposition, in view of the enormity and finality of its consequences, e.g., as applied to Jews, homosexuals, and various minorities in WWII. <br /><br />Stephen Nathanson asserts that the idea of supreme emergency is vague, subject to arbitrary and subjective applications. It is a slippery slope to argue for exceptions allowing such terror. (SEP, “Terrorism,” 2.3.3). Consider that the Allies goal was unconditional surrender. Flexibility in the terms could possibly have saved many civilian and military lives. <br /><br />Ultimately, however, when comes down to our civilians vs. theirs in a just war, and in dealing with desperate uncertainty, the “supreme emergency” doctrine has its rightful place. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>If the Mercenaries Intended on Deploying the Biological Weapon In Wakanda </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>If the Avengers believed that the mercenaries planned to deploy the biological weapon in a crowded Wakandan city center causing millions of deaths, then it was morally permissible for the Avengers to engage them, despite the clear risk to civilian lives. This Avengers’ case presents a “supreme emergency” on the level Walzer describes because the stakes are so high and the failure to act would likely be too costly. The capacity of the villains to use the weapon—even beyond the initial millions dead if deployed—is a real possibility, too. The Avengers’ cause was just, and even if their authority was not direct, it should be implied given the extreme situational peril faced by millions. <br /><br />This could be in the nature of a preventative war. The villains are at virtually at war with society and/or the Avengers themselves. The threatened attack is clear and likely, even if not necessarily immanent at the time of engagement. Therefore, it was morally permissible to thwart the villains at the risk of civilian lives. Even if it was not strictly in self-defense, they hadn’t provoked it. It would be absurd to wait for an attack; once the bioweapon is released—then or later in another city—it would be too late to prevent massive casualties. More likely, however, is that this is a case of self-defense. The response was proportionate, considering the nature and extent of the threat to the civilian populations and the fast-breaking action. <br /><br />The strongest objection to the preceding argument is that even in self-defense, the result of saving a million lives is not certain, whereas the deaths of innocent civilians in engaging the villains in an urban area is virtually certain. Also, acting so violently and quickly in dealing with such a dangerous weapon could set it off. One could question the manner of the Avenger’s efforts, and whether mitigation was attempted, such as cornering the weapon in a safer area. <br /><br />However, this objection is ultimately not successful because the stakes are too high. The potential environmental damage, perhaps permanent, and especially the magnitude of the loss of life, militates for a drastic solution: stop them at virtually all costs, e.g., less than one million lives. It was not the time to initiate negotiations with such villains. Furthermore, a “supreme emergency” takes precedence over the doctrine of double effect. Michael Walzer (1977) has argued that an additional condition for the Double Effect doctrine is to minimize the foreseen harm even if this will involve accepting additional risk or foregoing some benefit. Only if mitigation was available, timely, and effective without foregoing benefits and without incurring additional risk, should the Avengers have considered mitigation in the moment. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Conclusion </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">I’ve described the doctrine of double effect and argued its applicability to the Avenger’s decision to battle in Lagos despite the foreseeable civilian deaths. The objection to that applicability is that there are unacknowledged moral considerations and tendencies of human thought at play that cause the application to be somewhat illusory. However, that objection is weak in the face of the enormous life and death stakes in Legos. Furthermore, I described Walzer’s doctrine of “supreme emergency” and how it would apply to the Legos battle if the villains’ intent was to deploy the bioweapon there despite the lack of mitigation, if any, under the extreme circumstances. </div><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Kevin Daleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09599912486366904644noreply@blogger.com1Lagos, Nigeria6.5243793 3.3792057-21.785854536178846 -31.7770443 34.834613136178845 38.5354557tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-47219847269124671552017-11-03T15:22:00.001-04:002017-11-18T20:24:39.610-05:00AFFIRMATIVE ACTION REACTION<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFYHojs98VcYJ4lwGenTPCa3HBO2BNkItEec0syPsF_SDJIe1hZF7XoqqPKIxvZRq2PkSj1FF7hduhVIq0oCwGGxkPt3NZ7FxQjy5nE-Drio81rVRO0oiIV4JHooPa6Hy_YGJDu1p6i4/s1600/Howard+Law+grads+c+1900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="550" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFYHojs98VcYJ4lwGenTPCa3HBO2BNkItEec0syPsF_SDJIe1hZF7XoqqPKIxvZRq2PkSj1FF7hduhVIq0oCwGGxkPt3NZ7FxQjy5nE-Drio81rVRO0oiIV4JHooPa6Hy_YGJDu1p6i4/s320/Howard+Law+grads+c+1900.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In the dean’s office at a university in Washington, D.C., several
students gathered there suggested that I should not have been allowed admission
into the university. Because of the color of my skin.</div>
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It disturbed my head more than my heart because I knew where
they were coming from. Still, they should have given me more consideration. I belonged.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was more to it. This was in law school years ago at
Howard University, one of 107 Historically Black Colleges and Universities
(HBCUs), most of which were created in former slave states in the aftermath of
the American Civil War.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I am white. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Howard is in the nation’s capital, where our current
president, Trump, presides over a nationalistic American First agenda. Trump appears
ready to take on affirmative action by investigating and suing universities
that discriminate against white applicants. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Notably, Trump revoked President Obama’s executive order on the
White House Initiative on Historically Black Colleges and Universities
(WHIHBCU), which has been extant since the Carter administration. Trump’s replacement
order in February 2017 eliminates “measurable directives” and deletes the
emphasis “especially African Americans”, adding instead the phrase “advancing
the interests of all Americans”. <br />
<br />
The WHIHBCU
notes that the HBCU Career Development Marketplace celebrates its 10th
anniversary today, but Trump is no where to be seen in the outdated website.
President Obama’s name is still there on the first page.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As for other U.S. presidents:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<ul>
<li>President Kennedy - started “affirmative action” with his executive
order that government contractors were to "take affirmative action to
ensure that applicants are employed and treated without regard to their race, creed, color, or national
origin."</li>
<li>President Johnson - required government employers to take
"affirmative action" to "hire without regard to race, religion
and national origin" (gender was added two years later).</li>
<li>President Carter - distributed resources and funds to
strengthen the nation's public and private HBCUs.</li>
<li>President Nixon - fired Leon Panetta as the Director
of Civil Rights for attempting to enforce desegregation.</li>
<li>President Reagan - minimized desegregation by non-enforcement,
but shifted focus to funding and support for black college and universities.</li>
<li>George H. W. Bush - created the presidential advisory board on
HBCUs to counsel the government on HBCU’s future development.</li>
</ul>
HBCUs have always allowed admission to students of all
races. U.S. News ranks Howard second nationally for HBUCs, behind Spelman
College (all women’s college), and ahead of Morehouse College (all men’s
college). Hampton University in Virginia, the third-ranked HBUC, traces its
roots to Mary Peake, a free African-American who taught a group of about 20
freed slaves under an oak tree.<o:p></o:p><br />
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My roots are Irish Catholic, with some English—naturally
conflicted. My ancestors were horribly oppressed in Ireland under the Penal
Laws. Even presidential candidate John F. Kennedy worried about his Irish
Catholic background. Remember, Catholics informally represent one of the Ks in
the KKK—Katholics, Kikes (Jews), and Koons (Blacks). But Kennedy faced the
religious issue head on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later, President Kennedy started the U.S. Peace Corps. Before
joining the Peace Corps, I had read then-senator Kennedy’s book, Profiles in
Courage. He had donated his Pulitzer Prize money for that book to the United
Negro College Fund.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Eventually, the Irish in America became “white” because,
although everyone’s skin color is an “immutable characteristic”, our white skin
allowed us to blend in and access the American dream. I grew up in a virtually
all white suburb of Boston. One reason I chose Howard for law school was
because it was an intra-cultural experience, which followed naturally my intercultural
experience in the Peace Corps. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As for the law school dean, he flat out told the students
who had approached him that I did belong there at Howard. All these years
later, I found an article, “Peace Corps Teams Up with The White House
Initiative on Historically Black Colleges and Universities for East Coast Tour.”
This pleases me. The connection is palpable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Affirmative action is a reaction, a reaction to past
discrimination. It didn’t come out of an ideological or factual vacuum. It came
out of the reality born of millions of racially prejudiced experiences. Millions,
which has momentum, momentum that must be overcome, offset until America is
affirmatively on a path toward equitable balance. At what point that is, is a
matter of dispute. In <a href="https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/02-241.ZO.html">Grutter v.
Bollinger</a>, the Supreme Court stated: “We expect that 25 years from now, the
use of racial preferences will no longer be necessary to further the interest
approved today.” That was in 2003, which means the justices expected that
balance in 2028.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They are not the only prejudices out there, but
cumulatively, racial prejudices represent a significant target for remedy. So
yes, we, collectively—collecting our flaws as well, necessarily—all belong.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Kevin Daleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09599912486366904644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-4177132374786888032017-08-06T09:08:00.002-04:002017-08-06T09:49:16.201-04:00How to Ruin a Reunion<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;">Okay, keeping all that old crap in my files paid off. I found this nugget about my high school reunion. </span><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;">Yes, it is embarrassing, so feel free to enjoy. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><b style="background-color: white;">The Spoof:</b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Our 20th high school reunion was coming up, so </span></span><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;">I posted this</span><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"> on our page at </span><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;">Classmates.com:</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNfzyPqf_CKKzorJAKvKQo6jAtC2Cy9oYm-A0BEXPAcr6Jt9H7DM2ZZ8vr1X4iIT9uBvHpL_rPH-InNpafUe2Ja8xMIYM2Nskfl-O-mLjvJXLBX4ipxWrr-06ti4GuiOZGXTTUP7RJo8/s1600/The+Spoof.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNfzyPqf_CKKzorJAKvKQo6jAtC2Cy9oYm-A0BEXPAcr6Jt9H7DM2ZZ8vr1X4iIT9uBvHpL_rPH-InNpafUe2Ja8xMIYM2Nskfl-O-mLjvJXLBX4ipxWrr-06ti4GuiOZGXTTUP7RJo8/s640/The+Spoof.jpeg" width="424" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><br />Wow. I'm even more horrified as I re-read this again years later. But what the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;">So I got a call from the reunion organizer asking, hesitantly, if I was "okay." People spooked by my post called her in a panic. She almost didn't call me--fortunately, we'd gone to prom together, so she did call. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><b>The Apology:</b></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-FkUglCsDWNB10ydpz9s9_i4CCQNS8aFt8Z43qORsLyMrqMIUa4_8cYzE1lomRdQrP3VR23Xffen-vfbdHMK_NUwxj7zsDW34QmxoUFHhGOQDop5Uy_agpGyLMQ7HT9TVHC8B60-YaU/s1600/The+Apology.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-FkUglCsDWNB10ydpz9s9_i4CCQNS8aFt8Z43qORsLyMrqMIUa4_8cYzE1lomRdQrP3VR23Xffen-vfbdHMK_NUwxj7zsDW34QmxoUFHhGOQDop5Uy_agpGyLMQ7HT9TVHC8B60-YaU/s640/The+Apology.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Reading the apology now, I wonder if anyone disbelieved it, the bio part, i.e., that I <i>hadn't </i>graduated from a suburban voc-tech and became a lawyer/professor who married a Polynesian while in the Peace Corps and went to an historically Black law school, but was telling stories. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #414141; font-size: 12px;">Which would mean . . . the first post was true! But, no, I believe the apology worked as best it could at that point.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><b style="background-color: white;">The Relief:</b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1uMG09BEhRKJwGMAzb7lKyp-_j_CbfDDQBZ7p1QzToW865WlaHTERk6yXrnzBaD90GnhIGcWsyFMjiFh_RXAfkkeF-NvP87JOZcCLQDnk3JAJHtFTYGEdANiRYDGiW7d0YV7_xxi50s/s1600/Relieved+Student+Body.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="1600" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1uMG09BEhRKJwGMAzb7lKyp-_j_CbfDDQBZ7p1QzToW865WlaHTERk6yXrnzBaD90GnhIGcWsyFMjiFh_RXAfkkeF-NvP87JOZcCLQDnk3JAJHtFTYGEdANiRYDGiW7d0YV7_xxi50s/s640/Relieved+Student+Body.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Okay, re-reading this again, I have to chuckle--her knees have stopped shaking. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #414141; font-family: "arial" ,;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px;">And I stopped turning red at the memory of all this.</span></span><br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Kevin Daleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09599912486366904644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-623939563684340952015-08-06T19:08:00.001-04:002017-08-06T08:10:37.987-04:008. Hideaway, While You Still Can<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
boarded a bus bound for the other side of the island, away from this small town
capital, the closest to so-called civilization (no disrespect intended) for us
over the next two years. My lingering cold left me groggy, as did drinking beer
last night in the initial festive air that also lingered. We took a dirt road
through dense flora that hid a nearby village. Arriving at the Hideaway Hotel, we
saw a compound by an isolated beach. We paired off with our assigned roommates and
unpacked in small thatched-roof structures, a single room to each. A more basic
living was already apparent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
November 24<sup>th</sup>, language and culture lessons began at 8:00 am. Tea
was served at 10:00 a.m., with the usual snack of large crackers and butter. More
lessons, lunch at noon, then more lessons. Cindy, Mary‑Margaret, Pat and I were
in the same group for language. Pat, in her 60s, was having some difficulty. Older
people often have difficulty learning a second language, she’d said. I felt for
her, not having a background or gift for foreign languages myself. Years
before, I’d asked my brother Tommy what culture was. Knowing five languages, he
looked at me almost pitifully. Now, I had really begun to know, and this was no
textbook example. I was fulfilled: on an adventure, learning, and soon to
serve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
Wednesday afternoon, we had a full group session where we addressed areas of
common concern. Afterward, we walked way down the beach—a mile or more—to where
the river entered the ocean. The crashing surf sounded the coral reef, about a
mile out. Scents of salt, sea, moisture, flowers and other plants, some
unfamiliar, made for a permeating experience. From mountains and tall palms to
sea shells and sand grains, in reds, blues, and greens, and hues in between, it
was beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
the <i>fale</i>, the structure with posts
supporting a thatched roof, we had evening <i>lotu</i>,
singing Christian prayers that were part and parcel with these people. It was now
part of our daily routine, too. In this melodic Polynesian language, the
singing<i> </i>was an objectively beautiful
sound, regardless of not understanding lyrics. All twenty-nine PCVs (of thirty,
one was already lost due to health problems) and two of our trainers sat on the
floor, singing and praying. The <i>fale</i> was
fitting for this activity, without walls between nature and us, as if lacking a
barrier between Man and Maker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After
dinner, John S. and I went to our little <i>fale</i>
to put in an extra hour studying language. We went to Cindy’s and Mary‑Margaret’s
<i>fale</i> and drank a beer, listening to their
American music tapes for an hour until heading for the beach. There, we
listened to James Taylor songs while sitting in a small, beached tourist boat,
talking, viewing the stars, and listening to the surf brake. Ah, yes—breaks are
important, especially with music from home. By mid‑night, having caught up in
my journal and anticipating an early rise, it was time to read some of Kurt
Vonnegut’s “Galapagos” before I slept. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>Thanksgiving
Day: </b>it began with more language lessons. For Sikoti (Scott), Palauni (Brian),
Atamu (Adam), and me, it was with trainer Siauane, who was difficult to
understand. We were, however, becoming used to the Samoan names assigned to us.
For some, our name was Samoan‑ized because there was no direct translation,
hence still familiar, e.g., for me, “Kevini,” which lacked imagination but I
didn’t much mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
developed a fever of 102.5 F and <i>manava
tata, </i>which sounds much better than the English word--diarrhea. I received
aspirin and advice from Meko, the contract Peace Corps medical officer whose
nativity is Papua New Guinea. After dinner, I slept until hearing John and
Cindy approach my <i>fale</i> to check on
me. Unbeknownst to them, I woke. As they entered, I feigned a toss’n turn
sleep, mumbling, eyes closed, in apparent delirium. They came bedside slowly
and observed. John then gently put his hand on my arm. “Kevin . . . Kevin,” he whispered.
My faint mumbling grew louder and clearer, becoming “Aunty Em, Aunty Em, Aunty
Em ...”. Then I sat up and shouted, “Toto! Toto!”, and we all burst out
laughing. They called me a few choice words, but I enjoyed earning them. I felt
up for a walk, which took us to some PCVs playing guitars and hanging out in a
common area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
<b>November 28th</b>, feeling somewhat better, I joined the others for more language
study in small groups. Later, we regrouped for <i>fiafia </i>practice, which was fun. A <i>fiafia </i>is a meeting of two sides at opposite ends of a <i>fale</i> in an entertainment format of
singing, clapping, orating, chanting, teasing, and dancing, village vs. the
guests of the village. There was much repartee and jest, and of course the
usual words of respect exchanged. Afterward, we volunteers played the Samoan
national card game that we’d learned, <i>suipi</i>,
properly slamming down each card played<i>.</i>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>Assignment Apia: </b>The
next day, we were assigned tasks to perform back in Apia, the only large town
and the nation’s commercial center of about 35,000 people. In groups of three
or four, we got on the standard wood-framed buses with wooden bench seats, for
the first time un-chaperoned. Above the bus driver’s head, a picture of Jesus
Christ was prominently pasted. A medley of decorations adorned the dashboard
and all around. Polynesian music pounded out through large, mounted speakers as
we crossed the mid-island mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
arrived and wandered to find and purchase the items on the list with the money
the training staff had provided. Samoans here spoke much more rapidly than in
language class—no surprise, right? I recognized one word in twenty. And we were
supposed to achieve something through this language? Well, we were determined
to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">For
some items, we went to the produce market where farmers and families brought
their wares and lounged on pandandus mats until someone looked interested. It has
been called the New Market ever since relocated by the government years ago. Below
a huge corrugated aluminum roof, there were no walls and no stalls, except
those created with boxes and blankets. A few vendors stood and smiled, gently
suggesting a purchase. A few recognized words were all it took for us to make
our first exchange, politely smiling, and we walked away, pleased with
ourselves. At a few encounters, we did not at all understand what they were
saying, so we said goodbye, too embarrassed or frustrated to keep trying. Other
times, not only was the item not on our list, but we did not recognize the item
as coming from anything—like the ground, the sea, or the air. A few vendors did
speak English to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
fish market nearby was beside the water. We headed for it to find a jellyfish. My
flip-flop got caught on the uneven ground and a strap broke, so I took them off.
At tables, people cut and cleaned a plethora of various fish and sea creatures,
but no jellyfish. Our queries proved fruitless. One thing I did discover, though,
was that the floor had a disgusting way of making bare feet slippery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Our
final task was to find out what was playing at the 8:00 p.m. movie. We wandered
among blocks of stores, but could not find the movie theater—the only real one
on the island. We then tried to ask people what was playing there. We got
friendly smiles and curious stares followed by shrugs. One person doggedly tried
to direct us there, but he seemed to not understand that we only needed to know
what movie was playing that night; either that or we could not understand that
he <i>did</i> in fact understand us, but he
didn’t know what was playing and was suggesting that we go find out for
ourselves—a mystery, playing before our very eyes. We sensed our linguistic
handicap. It was interesting, frustrating and funny, and I was glad to be with
others on this first true test of cross‑cultural communication in Samoan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
went back to the dirt-lot bus depot with our bags and looked for the bus, careful
to find the exact spelling because many syllables were phonetically and
visually similar. One vowel off and we could end up being overnight guests in a
remote village, incommunicado. When we found it, we finally relaxed for the
trip home (did I say home?). All groups came back, and we took turns discussing
our experience in terms of language, culture, and impressions, what worked and
what did not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
evening, Mary‑Margaret pierced ears for John S., Jim, and me. She held a cold
Sam Miguel beer bottle next to the ear for a minute as thermal anesthesia,
cleaned it with alcohol, and then pierced it with a sewing needle. So those
sewing kits they’d handed out had come in handy. Our early evening swim in the
salty ocean was good for our ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>November 30<sup>th</sup></b>: We left the Hideaway Hotel for Tausaga village. We
arrived and went directly to church. The entire congregation harmonized in their
sonorous language. We were handed sheets with the lyrics and translations, and
tried to join in. Even if we had beautiful voices, we probably sounded drunk to
them, ill-timed and mispronounced. Fortunately, they drowned us out, mostly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Afterward,
it was <i>to’ona’i </i>time. We sat in the <i>fale</i> by the lake, cross‑legged and
waiting to be served by the young people of the village. Pigs, chickens,
roosters and kids ran loose. We realized that they were starting with a <i>kava</i> ceremony, which was disappointing
because we were hungry. Also, for me and a few others, the cross‑legged sitting
position on the floor, for extended periods of time, was painful. We couldn’t
extend our legs frontwards because that would be insulting to whomever the legs
pointed toward. Who started these meanings and traditions anyway? Surely, there
was nothing inherently insulting about extending your feet out while sitting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">They
called out the names of the most respected guests, one at a time, to receive a
half‑coconut shell cup of <i>kava</i>, and
then it was out turn. If we were Samoan, they would either know each of our
names or find out for the calling. However, we were many PCV <i>palagi</i>, making it impracticable for
that, so for some, they made up names. They called out “Adam” for me. I laughed
a little, and said, “Ava lea le Atua,” while pouring out a symbolic portion
onto the floor for God, as we were trained to do. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I drained the cup and said, “<i>Ia, manuia,”</i> (to your health), then the
group responded with, “<i>Soifua,”</i>
(live), or vice versa. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Next, they called out PCV Mark as “Eve”, and everyone laughed louder.
Then Jim was “Aspirin.” Meanwhile, the <i>kava</i>
was slightly numbing of body and appetite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Finally,
after going through the whole group, and following more oration exchanges, the
food came. First served was PCV Scott because he was our acting chief,
necessarily selected because us <i>palagi’</i>s
have no chiefly titles bestowed upon us. I sat beside Scott. We quietly complained
to each other about needing to stretch our legs out. I never would have guessed
how painful it would be to just sit cross-legged for a period of time. Standing
would be impolite, and politeness was one of the paramount values of this
culture. One luxurious loop hole we discovered was that if there was one of
those woven grass mats on the floor in front of us, if we had to, we could pull
it over and stretch our legs out underneath it without offending anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Women
brought food out on large banana leaves and placed it before each of us on the
mats we sat on. They sat before us while we ate, using woven hand fans to keep
the flies from landing on the food. The dessert, provided by the Peace Corps
and formally presented earlier, was half-melted ice cream. Later on we kicked
the soccer ball around coconut trees on the lawn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
was dark when I went down to the beach alone and walked. It was beautiful, but
a bit eerie. I watched out for the wild dogs that I’d been warned about,
especially because (hey, it could happen) they could run me into the ocean to
be eaten by sharks. I saw too many shadows, on land and in the ocean, so I looked
up at the multitude of stars, sat on the sand, and thought positive about
things like my family, old and new friends, and, oh yeah, God.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>December 1st:</b> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">After
language lessons, we had an afternoon community meeting,
including a demonstration on how to take a shower at an outside pipe, village
style, by trainer Apulu, a very funny orator chief. I also got a chance to play
pool--a national rarity--with Tile, a young male Samoan trainer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
at the beach, I updated my journal and watched the sun set. John S. sat nearby
on a rock, writing, too. He was shirtless and wore a wrap-around </span></span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">lava lava</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, and with his whiffle haircut
and eyeglasses, it called to mind </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">Gandhi</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> and his mission of peace and freedom. I
was dressed similarly, and felt akin to a monk, writing silently in a natural
setting, especially when the bell rang, calling us in for </span></span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">lotu</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, the evening reading and singing of prayers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">December
2<sup>nd</sup> I recorded as “just another day in paradise”. This morning, I
was tired despite having slept well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Damn the cheap pen</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">—it
was difficult to writing with them. Often, it was the little difficulties that
grated upon us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
learned possessive pronouns this morning—not difficult, but necessary to
memorize and keep straight. I also learned dirty words and phrases, and not
just for fun. It was important to know if one was being verbally abused or not,
especially as a teacher where classroom decorum and respect had to be
maintained—a lesson a good friend of mine would learn the hard way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Tea
was at 10:00 a.m. As usual, the entire PCV training group went out under the <i>fale </i>with the scented breeze blowing and
the waves moving mere yards away. More language training followed. Lunch
featured hamburgers that tasted like odd meatloaf because their meat was home
grown and not ground fine. Dessert was <i>faux
</i>Jell-O that smelled of dirty socks, as if made with stagnant water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fiafia</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">
practice was moved to the afternoon so that we could have the evening free for
studying or relaxation. Emmor of Washington and I were “volunteered” to imitate
or demonstrate the part of the <i>fiafia </i>where
men sort of jump around and yelp to the sides and rear of the featured woman
dancer, to support her, which looked pretty cool. After seeing how it was
supposed to be, they had a good laugh seeing us try, too vigorously. My <i>lava lava</i>, normally tied or tucked into
itself around the waist like a towel, came undone and fell part way off. I held
firm the right side with my left hand, while in a panic chasing the loose left
side with my right hand, spinning and revealing a cheek. They applauded. I
maintained that I had underwear on, but some dispute this (and yes, for you
cheeky bastards, thong underwear would explain the discrepancy but no it wasn’t
so). An elderly Samoan woman trainer, Koke, the epitome of correct culture, cut
off the merriment and admonished Emmor and me for acting like monkeys. Although
we had enjoyed hamming it up a bit, we were making sincere attempts. Nevertheless,
she was right, and we were all subdued, for the very real subtleties of the
dance and movement and the seriousness of purpose had momentarily escaped us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>December 4<sup>th</sup>:</b> Training continued, but today we received
Newsweek Magazines, a courtesy monthly subscription every PCV devoured. I got a
chance to read it by the water, in the room, and all over, cover to cover,
right down to the copyright language, the Newsweek staff listing, and the
advertisement details; it was due to our isolation, which worsened with the
weeks trudging along. At least, I got to snorkel by the reef earlier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
my progress review later that day, Jackie, the head trainer who was a PCV in
Western Samoa many years before, told me I was doing well in language study and
would be moved to a quicker group, which was encouraging. In an announcement
some PCVs were warned about PDAs, public displays of affection. A cautionary
note was also sounded about drinking beer. I guess we had to pay attention even
when relaxing. At the end of the day we had <i>fiafia
</i>practice again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
the last day at the Hideaway Hotel, before going to spend the weekend with the
volunteers we were to replace, we finished training in the afternoon and then went
down to the river to play stickball. In the evening, we finally had our <i>fiafia </i>with the Hideaway Hotel employees
as our opposites, which was fun to see performed by the people we got to know and
was satisfying to put into practice. A party followed at John and Mark’s <i>fale</i>, then the <i>fale </i>of a trainer, Silau, with plenty of dancing and laughing. Many
strolled to the beach from there. I joined for a little while then returned to
my <i>fale </i>to brush up on a
refrigeration text that I’d brought with me. I went back out later, but I
shouldn’t have, as I ended up with only three hours sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
we left the hotel, the friendly staff that we had bonded with saw us off. We
waved from the bus. The engine started and I started an adaptation of a classic
1960s American song – “Na, na, na, na. Na, na, na, na. Hey, ay, ay ... <i>To fa</i> (Samoan for ‘good bye’)”. Over and
over we sang, until well out of sight. We then listened to a cassette tape of
Pink Floyd going back to Apia, appropriate for the course over the mountains,
dark green and shapely in the cool white mists, and rife with unique flora. The
banyan trees looked surreal; instead of a single trunk, thick vines looked like
roots that couldn’t wait to sink themselves into the moist soil. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
Peace Corps office was across from the market, and that was where we met about
half of the current PCVs from around the islands. We were to stay the weekend
with them to gain their living and work perspective. First, most of us went to
play softball at TTI, the Technical Training Institute where I would be
teaching. I arrived with Andrew and he took me on a tour of the school and the
refrigeration shop. I was very excited and apprehensive; I couldn’t wait to
start teaching, yet I could. We played the Australian volunteers and won. Next
we lost to the Japanese volunteers. I was glad to meet many of them and share a
beer from the keg that was delivered from the local brewery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
left TTI for a barbeque at a volunteer’s flat nearby. I took advantage of
another keg when it wasn’t looking, lol (“lol” didn’t even exist back
then—neither did texting . . . lol). Well, my feet were steady but my mind was
brimming with sentiment. At one point in a conversation with a current PCV and
Scott, a fellow trainee from North Dakota, I ventured that nobody cared about
justice as much as I because I was so passionate about it, and I said it seriously,
as if a challenge. I still cringe, recalling that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Suddenly,
two young Samoan men began fighting outside in the front yard. The unlucky one
got punched, hit with the back edge of a bush knife and kicked in the head. This
was not a place where a police car might luckily be in the neighborhood. They
have no such fleet. Nevertheless, some people broke up the contenders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
left for Andrew’s place, a government “flat”—a slab house. There were no
basements in Samoa that I had ever seen. The corrugated aluminum roof kept out
the rain, the screens kept out the flies and mosquitoes, and the louvered glass
windows allowed the air to circulate into the house to dry things out, if
possible, and let out the heat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><b>December 8<sup>th:</sup> </b>I rose with sun-blistered cheeks,
something easily acquired on a softball field by a fair skinned person twelve
degrees south of the equator. Andrew and I caught a bus to Apia then walked to
the Apia Yacht Club, which consisted of small parcel of land with an unpainted
two-room structure made of unfinished cinder block. There were few chairs, no
amenities, and no staff. It looked more like a garage mid-constriction. The
shed nearby contained twenty or so wind surfers, sailfish, and a couple of
small Catamaran. I helped Andrew carry out the Cat that he was minding for a
foreign couple who had left it behind for him to sell. We set the mast and
sails. He took me out for a short ride along the coast, inside the coral reef. The
distant perspective on the water, reef, and mountains deepened the colors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
evening, Andrew and I walked to a small building near the National Hospital. We
met there a few other PCVs with their trainees. We felt a bit like pets as the
PCVs would meet in the street, introduce their guest, then discuss them. As we
entered the “theatre,” we paid a few coins into the cardboard collection box. Inside
there was a sea of brown skinned folk rendered uniform by their common attire. Many
were older children. A white bed sheet hung in the front of the room. Apparently
it was the “screen,” another of many things in this country to put in quotation
marks. The projector was started then stopped for correction. After a few
minutes, it started up. Then shut down. But nobody seemed to find quality
control unduly lacking. After about ten times, the locals’ patience was
thinner, but not thin. They had time—Samoan time—for Samoan things and <i>palagi</i>
(white people) things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">During
the movie, the Samoans laughed and reacted at what seemed the most
inappropriate times, like when partial nudity was shown or someone was
physically hurt. And when we reacted emotionally to a scene, they often
remained silent. Movies were probably one of the major exposures to the West that
they received, which could be very misleading and a bad influence. Do you know
how many dogs I’ve heard were named “Rambo” in this country? Neither do I, I
lost count. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
were to depart for a remote village the next day, to be immersed most deeply
into the culture, so I went to sleep early; it was no time to play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Kevin Daleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09599912486366904644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-48115723906995783252015-05-06T11:46:00.000-04:002015-08-06T19:16:59.592-04:007. Injuries to Avoid<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
November 21st, we had our work-site visits. Andrew and I hopped on his off-road
motorcycle for the Western Samoa Technical Institute, or “T.I.” as it was
informally called. It which was situated two miles from Apia center (it later
became the Samoa Polytechnic, and then part of the National University of
Samoa). The tropical airflow and changing scents and sights were invigorating.
Andrew introduced me to the principal there, a Samoan man probably in his
fifties, who welcomed me. I also met an educational consultant, a man from
India, who had arrived via work in London, New Zealand, and Tonga. He seemed to
have wise eyes, and from our conversation, it seemed to me that in his
perception of the world, he had developed a coherent philosophy. (I would come
to appreciate his non-judgmental compassion for me when I suffered some
difficult times later). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
at the hotel, our group had a session to gauge our progress and handle any
issues, problems, or questions. Volunteers raised issues particular to their
assignments. Before the end of the day, we had a medical orientation. Common
problems and other information were described. For instance, male PCVs tended
to lose weight while female PCVs tended to gain weight. A poisoning issue
involved trainer Apulu demonstrating with a live “Crown of Thorns.” It looked like a starfish from the planet
Mars, red and crusty with spikes that can poison you if you step on them,
sometimes fatally. He showed us how to flip it over to have the underside mouth
placed over the wound so the animal would suck out the poison for
you--certainly the preferred method for the person whose friend accidentally
sits on one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
training staff handed out one copy each of a large paperback book called “Where
There Is No Doctor -a Village Health Care Handbook.” The cover photograph is of
villagers crossing a waist-deep river in the wilderness, carrying a person on a
stretcher covered with a raised, thin sheet. Inside the book, I saw depictions
and descriptions of everything wretched that can happen to one’s insides and
outsides. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
book was supposed to be empowering, not encouraging. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There
was the National Hospital in Apia, where at least basic care was available, but
at remote locations, you could only find a few basic medical stations with a
nurse or “nurse like person.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">November
22nd marked the assassination that had stunned the world. Because the Peace
Corps began under John F. Kennedy’s administration, we were acutely aware of
this date even while abroad. We acknowledged it while still gathered for the
morning briefing following breakfast. The rest of the day was for R&R.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A
few of us left for Palolo Deep, a deep area inside the coral reef that
surrounds most of the island. Cindy, Mary Margaret, John S., John W., Mark, and
I waded out to a pile of rocks about 100 yards off shore where we used a
twenty-foot thatched roof hut as a base for swimming, sunning, lounging, and
picnicking. While snorkeling, we saw many tropical fish flashing their amazing
array of colors among the penetrating beams of sunlight. But my mind drifted
toward sharks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Everyone
has a phobia. For me, since the movie “Jaws,” it’s sharks! Finding out that
they had filmed it offshore of Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts didn’t help,
even though great whites didn’t hunt in these waters. Ironically, I am less
scared of them now, perhaps because the Jaws effect wore off and because I’ve
lived long enough to feel I wouldn’t be terribly short changed if gobbled up. I
used to think that if I lived to 33, the age Jesus died, then I could ask for
no more. I think the worst part of it all is that it is beyond one’s control,
once in the water, and you can’t see it coming. Contrast that with doing 100
m.p.h. on a motorcycle or parachuting or free rock climbing, where I’ve
calculated visible risks—not as scary (parachuting was quite frightening at
first).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sharks
occasionally get through the spaces in the coral reef here, especially at high
tide. We were told that here in 1972, an 18-foot Tiger Shark bit off the top
half of a PCV. Apparently, while spear fishing, the line holding his captured
fish had snapped Rather than drag it along with his hand, he looped it around
his neck. A Tiger Shark caught the unintended bait and reeled in the volunteer.
It was said that a woman with him, perhaps his girlfriend, witnessed it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Speaking
of animals eating other animals, that evening, we devoured a baked pig and an
imported turkey complemented by multiple dishes at a Thanksgiving dinner. This
treat was at the Peace Corps Country Director’s semi-western style house, which
was on the oceanfront and beautifully set. Most countries that Peace Corps serves
have an office led by a Country Director and two to four Associate Country
Directors with a small staff. Some Associate directors and staff are host
country nationals. The food was wonderful, and we got to play volleyball on the
well-tended lawn. In speaking with Andrew, he advised me to live with another
volunteer if I had any need for privacy or time for myself, as a traditional
Samoan family would usually not fully understand the need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The next step in training
was to take us deeper into Samoa, deeper into the culture. The nervous
excitement was palpable among us as we headed for the Hideaway.</span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
November 21st, we had our work-site visits. Andrew and I hopped on his off-road
motorcycle for the Western Samoa Technical Institute, or “T.I.” as it was
informally called. It which was situated two miles from Apia center (it later
became the Samoa Polytechnic, and then part of the National University of
Samoa). The tropical airflow and changing scents and sights were invigorating.
Andrew introduced me to the principal there, a Samoan man probably in his
fifties, who welcomed me. I also met an educational consultant, a man from
India, who had arrived via work in London, New Zealand, and Tonga. He seemed to
have wise eyes, and from our conversation, it seemed to me that in his
perception of the world, he had developed a coherent philosophy. (I would come
to appreciate his non-judgmental compassion for me when I suffered some
difficult times later). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
at the hotel, our group had a session to gauge our progress and handle any
issues, problems, or questions. Volunteers raised issues particular to their
assignments. Before the end of the day, we had a medical orientation. Common
problems and other information were described. For instance, male PCVs tended
to lose weight while female PCVs tended to gain weight. A poisoning issue
involved trainer Apulu demonstrating with a live “Crown of Thorns.” It looked like a starfish from the planet
Mars, red and crusty with spikes that can poison you if you step on them,
sometimes fatally. He showed us how to flip it over to have the underside mouth
placed over the wound so the animal would suck out the poison for
you--certainly the preferred method for the person whose friend accidentally
sits on one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
training staff handed out one copy each of a large paperback book called “Where
There Is No Doctor -a Village Health Care Handbook.” The cover photograph is of
villagers crossing a waist-deep river in the wilderness, carrying a person on a
stretcher covered with a raised, thin sheet. Inside the book, I saw depictions
and descriptions of everything wretched that can happen to one’s insides and
outsides. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
book was supposed to be empowering, not encouraging. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There
was the National Hospital in Apia, where at least basic care was available, but
at remote locations, you could only find a few basic medical stations with a
nurse or “nurse like person.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">November
22nd marked the assassination that had stunned the world. Because the Peace
Corps began under John F. Kennedy’s administration, we were acutely aware of
this date even while abroad. We acknowledged it while still gathered for the
morning briefing following breakfast. The rest of the day was for R&R.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A
few of us left for Palolo Deep, a deep area inside the coral reef that
surrounds most of the island. Cindy, Mary Margaret, John S., John W., Mark, and
I waded out to a pile of rocks about 100 yards off shore where we used a
twenty-foot thatched roof hut as a base for swimming, sunning, lounging, and
picnicking. While snorkeling, we saw many tropical fish flashing their amazing
array of colors among the penetrating beams of sunlight. But my mind drifted
toward sharks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Everyone
has a phobia. For me, since the movie “Jaws,” it’s sharks! Finding out that
they had filmed it offshore of Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts didn’t help,
even though great whites didn’t hunt in these waters. Ironically, I am less
scared of them now, perhaps because the Jaws effect wore off and because I’ve
lived long enough to feel I wouldn’t be terribly short changed if gobbled up. I
used to think that if I lived to 33, the age Jesus died, then I could ask for
no more. I think the worst part of it all is that it is beyond one’s control,
once in the water, and you can’t see it coming. Contrast that with doing 100
m.p.h. on a motorcycle or parachuting or free rock climbing, where I’ve
calculated visible risks—not as scary (parachuting was quite frightening at
first).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sharks
occasionally get through the spaces in the coral reef here, especially at high
tide. We were told that here in 1972, an 18-foot Tiger Shark bit off the top
half of a PCV. Apparently, while spear fishing, the line holding his captured
fish had snapped Rather than drag it along with his hand, he looped it around
his neck. A Tiger Shark caught the unintended bait and reeled in the volunteer.
It was said that a woman with him, perhaps his girlfriend, witnessed it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Speaking
of animals eating other animals, that evening, we devoured a baked pig and an
imported turkey complemented by multiple dishes at a Thanksgiving dinner. This
treat was at the Peace Corps Country Director’s semi-western style house, which
was on the oceanfront and beautifully set. Most countries that Peace Corps
serves have an office led by a Country Director and two to four Associate
Country Directors with a small staff. Some Associate directors and staff are
host country nationals. The food was wonderful, and we got to play volleyball
on the well-tended lawn. In speaking with Andrew, he advised me to live with
another volunteer if I had any need for privacy or time for myself, as a
traditional Samoan family would usually not fully understand the need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Our
time at the Tusitala Hotel ended on November 23rd. The next step would take us deeper into Samoa, deeper into the culture. The nervous
excitement was palpable among us as we headed for the Hideaway.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-36069243527596427072015-03-20T18:51:00.001-04:002015-04-02T15:43:49.054-04:00Interesting Salon article from Kasai.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.salon.com/2015/03/16/my_shucking_and_jiving_years_i_was_the_black_guy_in_a_white_frat/">I was the black guy in a white frat</a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-68523872009260496492014-09-28T23:07:00.003-04:002015-04-02T15:30:33.570-04:00NEW SERIES . . . <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<u><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Peace in Polynesia, War in D.C.</b></span></u><br />
<u><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b><br /></b></span></u>
About my inter-cultural experience in the U.S. Peace Corps and intra-cultural experience as a white student at a historically black law school. (See numbered entries to the left.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqhMxerJW5qOKje80buPiDDnavbGoqu1cl0am6IyUj7tg20jyoj4g1SGKZSM68SesnUR-WKCv-1LbCHmpkYQXC39nSiNDAbYySHfbuQS_aQfO9LGAzXnRnwyM6e3f89y0Pqe5zjGm-2A/s1600/Peace+Corps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqhMxerJW5qOKje80buPiDDnavbGoqu1cl0am6IyUj7tg20jyoj4g1SGKZSM68SesnUR-WKCv-1LbCHmpkYQXC39nSiNDAbYySHfbuQS_aQfO9LGAzXnRnwyM6e3f89y0Pqe5zjGm-2A/s1600/Peace+Corps.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3S0U4uhWJ061YaBqS0WPK_TJk_7bzOm2aiVountcBNdeK1PhDpMq46fBY0BRtQJvXpqKYYUq0v0wNeZY8-ug_dGPZGy8hrOolfmmJxrr3MXuMeTGA42pk9qsNW-ZEDckIBy11-IlzyM/s1600/Howard+Univeristy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3S0U4uhWJ061YaBqS0WPK_TJk_7bzOm2aiVountcBNdeK1PhDpMq46fBY0BRtQJvXpqKYYUq0v0wNeZY8-ug_dGPZGy8hrOolfmmJxrr3MXuMeTGA42pk9qsNW-ZEDckIBy11-IlzyM/s1600/Howard+Univeristy.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
(write the <a href="http://www.peacecorps.gov/" target="_blank">Peace Corps</a> posts starting on Peace Corps week, and the <a href="http://www.law.howard.edu/" target="_blank">Howard Law</a> posts during national Black History Month? Ah, integrate them ...)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-79160077395876430192011-05-05T14:27:00.004-04:002011-05-05T14:40:12.621-04:00CHUM, CHAMP, AND CHUMP<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">Some will say Osama bin Laden at the bottom of the ocean is now appropriately closer to hell; others will say he will simply ascend farther to heaven. Some will wonder what his gunshot wounds look like; others will wonder if the sailors chummed the water before sliding his body into it. United we survivors stand over his body, but we need not gloat. We should be dignified<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">—not </span>for his death, but for our life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbotsN554IIOALrCxJFiolmLJHu3xxnRktnAwkFY3LOhPII3Pm7OaYyQRCYXvv85PojjtT1gHRrbcPYnbMkElH8F6Y1TRcaH7jPaOndgql7yZ_t3xVFqx4LtlkYZVP51yo-SLhU5norpI/s1600/Osama_bin_Laden_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbotsN554IIOALrCxJFiolmLJHu3xxnRktnAwkFY3LOhPII3Pm7OaYyQRCYXvv85PojjtT1gHRrbcPYnbMkElH8F6Y1TRcaH7jPaOndgql7yZ_t3xVFqx4LtlkYZVP51yo-SLhU5norpI/s1600/Osama_bin_Laden_portrait.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">We need not provide those visual proofs that would serve as anti-American propaganda and disserve “us”—the U.S. and those who would rather spend billions on helping people instead of on thwarting terrorist. Let us have faith that we discriminately terminated the one who through false interpretation of a genuine faith so indiscriminately murdered Americans and others. Maybe someday, like October 24<sup>th</sup>, United Nations Day, we can release “doctored” photos, i.e., real photos but with gauze-pad graphics pasted over the gruesome head wound. For now, let us keep to ourselves the last mortal views of him as the rightful antidote to the horrific public views of death on 911. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some say they would have personally pulled the trigger to kill Osama bin Laden, but would they have all really done so when the situation was not theoretical but real, requiring an instantaneous decision? Once, a government officer asked me if, under certain hypothetical circumstances, I would kill a person upon a superior’s order. My impulse was to say yes, but I wonder. As with most hypotheticals, the most common correct answer is “it depends.” With bin Laden, I hesitate because of the “human being” part of the apt phrase “evil human being.” However, in theory, at least, I would pull the trigger to end the life of someone who not only admitted the mass murder but also had never expressed remorse and continued to manifest intent to do it again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bin Laden sealed his own fate, in the end. The Abbottabad takedown was not an arrest by local police implying constitutional rights, so it did not violate U.S. law per se. It was a military operation. Did it violate international law? Well, it depends. Even in domestic law circumstances can permit justified homicide, e.g., self-defense by the victim, capital punishment by the state, both of which are analogous here. Seal Team Six members were properly committed to killing this terrorist under circumstances that before and during the action allowed no room for error or benefit of the doubt. Guns, not a white flag, greeted the Seals. Ultimately, the onus was on bin Laden to quit being a combatant quickly and clearly. He did not do so, so the killing was apparently legal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bin Laden is no chum to humanity; rather, he sank laden with sin. Obama is no chimp, Marilyn Davenport; rather he is one of a number of heroic champs. And yes, Robert Dinero, Trump with all his <i>dinero</i> acted like a chump recently. Now let’s get back to the business of being good Americans.</div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0pt 0pt;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://althouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/they-had-to-shoot-osama-bin-laden.html">They had to shoot Osama bin Laden because he was not naked.</a> (althouse.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://arabnews.com/world/article382380.ece%20">ArabNews.com</a> </li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2014967871_apcbcubacastrobinladen.html?syndication=rss">Fidel Castro criticizes US for bin Laden kill</a> (seattletimes.nwsource.com)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=ffdf6bc8-808e-4464-bb3b-f7df28e261e8" style="border: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0Cambridge, MA, USA42.3726399 -71.10965279999999242.346646400000004 -71.1577713 42.3986334 -71.061534299999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-22459894771430568482011-03-29T09:00:00.003-04:002016-03-21T14:17:04.222-04:00THE DEEPER TRUTH OF RADIATION – Nagasaki, Hiroshima, and Fukushima<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="zemanta-img separator" sizcache="127" sizset="0" style="clear: right;">
<a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nagasaki_1945_-_Before_and_after_%28adjusted%29.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Nagasaki, Japan, before and after the atomic b..." src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4e/Nagasaki_1945_-_Before_and_after_%28adjusted%29.jpg/300px-Nagasaki_1945_-_Before_and_after_%28adjusted%29.jpg" height="329" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-size: 0.8em;" width="300" /></a><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" sizcache="127" sizset="1" style="clear: both; float: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 300px;">Image via <a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nagasaki_1945_-_Before_and_after_%28adjusted%29.jpg">Wikipedia</a></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Radiation: sending out rays; to shine; to glow. <br />
It gives life on Earth via the sun or destroys life via bombs and contamination. Less than two years ago Samoa suffered a tsunami. It survived and its people will flourish despite the setback from being on the verge of removal from the United Nation’s list of least developed nations. When I taught refrigeration at the technical institute in Samoa’s capital, Apia, we Peace Corps volunteers had a tradition of playing softball on the campus grounds against Japanese Overseas Cooperation Volunteers from the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA). We even played on the anniversary of VJ Day, the U.S. day of victory over Japan in World War II, but the game was in good fun and friendship, and we mixed the teams for a second game. Our American-Japanese friendships extended into other areas from work to parties to tennis tournaments and cultural demonstrations. For instance, I tutored my friend, Tatsuya Kanda of Osaka, in English and he taught me a little karate. <br />
<br />
Several years ago I breakfasted, tȇte-ὰ-tȇte, with a former U.S. Senator, discussing our respective writing projects and backgrounds. The conversation turned to his career and to history. The atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki was not justified, he said. Over the years, the issue has been debated extensively, whether or not the bombing helped end World War II sooner and saved more lives on both sides than it lost. To be clear, I am not entering that debate here. Additionally, he said it was a horrendous blow to humanity. And who could disagree? I could, at least insofar as a certain point I had. And it was this: the extreme human horror and radical devastation from those two detonated bombs made all subsequent nuclear-capable countries fear military escalation to an unprecedented degree. Consequently, it pre-empted a greater evil for the future of all humanity. <br />
<br />
So far, anyway—we came very close to nuclear war during the <span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuban_Missile_Crisis">Cuban Missile Crisis</a></span> when President John F. Kennedy’s top generals recommended the nuclear bombing of Cuba because the Soviet Union had placed nuclear weapons on the island. My breakfast companion sat back and, looking thoughtful, agreed that whether or not that bombing was justified, it likely served a greater good for all humanity in holding back any number of fingers from the nuclear button in later conflicts. I still feel the truth in this, and beyond the Mutually Assured Destruction of the U.S. vs. Soviets or other countries; it is applicable to all nuclear-capable nations. But that’s me, looking for sunshine because darkness is too easily found. <br />
<br />
And so, my proposal: take the nuclear waste from Japan’s stricken reactors and bury it within U.S. soil. First, they don’t have the room. Second, we do, with isolated salt mines and the like. It would be a literal and symbolic healing gesture that goes beyond friendship between the two nations to honor all life. From inflicting radiation in southern Japan—passing through their consciousness, bodies, and souls for decades—we could remove radiation from northern Japan. Sure, it’s poetic, romantic, and maybe even ridiculously radiant of love and white doves, but it is redemptive and meaningful. Perhaps President Kennedy, who was injured when a Japanese destroyer ran down his <span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_PT-109">patrol boat</a></span> during WWII, would agree. <br />
<br />
Even if it is an expense for U.S. in a difficult economy—<br />
<br />
Everything I touch<br />
<br />
with tenderness, alas,<br />
<br />
pricks like a bramble.<br />
<br />
(Kobayashi Issa, 1763 – 1828)<br />
<br />
—we should nevertheless reach out a welcome hand—<br />
<br />
Sick and feverish<br />
<br />
Glimpse of cherry blossoms<br />
<br />
Still Shivering<br />
<br />
(Akutagawa, Ryunosuke, 1892 – 1927)<br />
<br />
Moreover, we will all be safer and healthier worldwide by taking action on nuclear waste. American just needs the political will to lead the way, beginning with recycling and developing the long-planned U.S. repository under Yucca Mountain in Nevada.<br />
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<div class="zemanta-related">
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<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=732354b0-a8f4-410f-98e5-3c836480be58" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-65583544167881523952011-02-15T13:39:00.002-05:002015-03-12T14:00:31.293-04:00When Cupid Misses the Mark<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="zemanta-img separator" sizcache="1115" sizset="0" style="clear: right;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduJLL5QGT_yELl6SOppV-YyIr_ZQVQAphLw0JS6Uo1ItiXU1JOL3RILfvn1FPRn1eQtwV39x1vK6n2kqQ2OERiE4hXdHL-7liMpwuuPoeYoSCv0DeJU2VlkDc2U2HayaFOsG31cPe_Yw/s1600/Creature_from_the_Black_Lagoon_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduJLL5QGT_yELl6SOppV-YyIr_ZQVQAphLw0JS6Uo1ItiXU1JOL3RILfvn1FPRn1eQtwV39x1vK6n2kqQ2OERiE4hXdHL-7liMpwuuPoeYoSCv0DeJU2VlkDc2U2HayaFOsG31cPe_Yw/s1600/Creature_from_the_Black_Lagoon_poster.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<span class="zemanta-img-attribution" sizcache="1115" sizset="1" style="clear: both; float: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 300px;">Image via <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Creature_from_the_Black_Lagoon_poster.jpg">Wikipedia</a></span><br />
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Post Valentine’s Depression can arise from unmet expectations, so I recommend being kind to those you love, and to those you don’t--and laughing at someone else’s folly, like mine. If I can have disastrous experiences like this and still find love, anyone can. </div>
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Not long out of high school, one circle of friends played matchmaker and paired me with a young lady from another circle of friends, so I only knew her tangentially. Let’s call her, say, Suzanne. After all, that’s her name. Real names have not been changed to protect the innocent because she was innocent but needed not protection—except one, which she provided the moment things got dirty, but not the way you might think.</div>
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Suzanne lived in a neat white house in a good section of town. She dressed well and knew well how to apply makeup and adorn herself with the right touch of jewelry. She had tight blond curls, with frosting. And her father was a Boston cop, if I remember my apprehension correctly (the jokes had preceded the date—"better treat her well, Kevin, or her father will shoot you," etc.). Oh, did I mention I had a car? Well, if I did, I retract that statement, because I did not. In fact, that fact was a logistical barrier to asking her out, something the shy side of me appreciated then. However, our mutual friends soon negotiated that obstacle for the Romeo-and-Juliet they sought to fashion—alas, that joint appellation was not to be. </div>
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She picked me up that evening with her father’s prized Cadillac Seville, shiny and white. She offered to have me drive. I thought he might get upset, but she insisted that it would be fine. I sat my tush behind the wheel, determined not to speed or crash and risk the wrath of her father, and away we went to the <a href="http://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WM62PF_South_Shore_Plaza_Twin_Drive_Braintree_MA">South Shore Plaza Twin Drive-In Movie Theatre</a> in Braintree.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-s-Lwkcc68KF8thEpTnaHlYSZX35Es-BLYsYgLfefAtan8fCz8mWgPL6K3s_dYYn99j6S_Bi4p7K4CNCbsEe376JXGNU4kmbOhT7F24dm3lhNZd1lnUVer-tWw8KGtiqmaIIvTO1zp4/s1600/Braintree+Drive-In+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-s-Lwkcc68KF8thEpTnaHlYSZX35Es-BLYsYgLfefAtan8fCz8mWgPL6K3s_dYYn99j6S_Bi4p7K4CNCbsEe376JXGNU4kmbOhT7F24dm3lhNZd1lnUVer-tWw8KGtiqmaIIvTO1zp4/s1600/Braintree+Drive-In+(3).jpg" height="320" width="263" /></a></div>
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I was, however, daring enough to procure a six-pack of Miller beer for us, which was my first mistake. She didn’t drink. Not that she was a goody-two-shoe; her two shoes were quite good, but she could stand on her own two feet and make a conscious choice. I decided not to mention how I’d once hung from the top of that drive-in movie screen (at 14 y.o., skipping school with friends, climbing up the back of the screen with big rocks to toss onto the small frozen pond behind like target practice; I hung over the front edge of the screen on a dare--well, I dared myself, actually).</div>
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We parked far from the concession stand bathrooms. That was my second mistake. I sipped beer as we sat in the car, immersed in the movie. When I realized that I was opening my fourth bottle, I became self-conscious. I wasn’t just out-pacing her; she’d abstained. Worse, beer goes right through me, and I’d already needed to go to the bathroom when we arrived but hadn’t wanted to risk missing the start of the movie. Now the end of the movie seemed imminent. So I waited. And Waited. And the plot developed, as did the internal pressure. And the movie seemed about to end, until another twist, while I wiggled, and finally I had to excuse myself, my face surely red from embarrassment and holding back the flow. I played it casual, said I’d be right back and would just hop over to the adjacent woods, as if it were a matter of convenience, not desperation. </div>
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In the semi-darkness, I paused at the ranch-style fence bordering the drive-in theater lot. Although far enough away, I was still within view of the car. Eager to make a better impression, I smoothly hopped over the fence with an eye toward a tree-target further in—but I landed in a <i>swamp</i>. </div>
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I struggled for balance but my feet slid in the muck, and my body moved away from the bank. I sank up to my waist. The cold was shocking. I gasped and tried to catch my balance, so I wouldn't sink further. Thin branches hanging down snapped in my hands, and promising vines broke their promise. I tried for traction on the uneven bottom without losing my shoes to the muck’s suction. With plodding as careful as walking a tight rope over gators, I managed to step, lean, pull, and pray my way to the slick bank where I clawed my way up. I thought I saw a pollywog leap off my body. </div>
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What just happened? How? Why? Now what? I stood, shivering, comprehending in stages, dripping water and algae and God knew what from my torso to my toes. I shook and wiped off what I could and then my heart dropped at the thought of the plush velour Cadillac seats. After doing my business, I squared my shoulders, wiped a bit of scum off them, and stepped over the fence. As I made my way, the squish-squish-squish sound of my shoes drew stares from other movie-goers. I reached the passenger side door and opened it. My, was she shocked—good thing we weren't watching <i>Creature From the Black Lagoon</i>, because I think we would have lost her.</div>
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Yes, I explained. Yes, I wondered what in the world was she wondering. Yes that included, <i>Who is this loser? Why did they fix me up with this guy who drinks yellow beer and now smells like crushed frog? Did this kid just piss his pants and find a swamp to blame it on? </i>I told her I couldn't get in because I’d ruin the seats. I actually volunteered to take off my pants—joking of course; OK, I was only half-joking, because I didn't have a solution for the murky mess that I’d gotten myself into. </div>
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She took off her white cardigan sweater, spread it on the passenger seat, and kindly insisted that I sit on it. That was not the way I’d envisioned her sweater coming off, I confess, but what could I do? I lowered myself. She drove me home. She kept her window down.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have someone to love on Valentine’s Day—whether romantically or not, in today’s greeting card-expanded definition— be happy you do; otherwise, get out there and take a chance on love, but keep it clean. </div>
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<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=ce7bcfe5-0729-4c48-9427-51b8b1b7a94e" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-78755730039277067972011-01-26T09:36:00.000-05:002011-01-26T09:36:45.381-05:00‘South Pacific Survivor in Samoa’ is first novel by ex-Braintree resident - Braintree, MA - Braintree Forum<a href="http://www.wickedlocal.com/braintree/news/x1733657886/-South-Pacific-Survivor-in-Samoa-is-first-novel-by-ex-Braintree-resident">‘South Pacific Survivor in Samoa’ is first novel by ex-Braintree resident - Braintree, MA - Braintree Forum</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-76269400274397771892011-01-02T18:30:00.005-05:002011-01-26T09:52:55.509-05:00Blog, Slog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Who said "there's no going home"? Apparently, I will be. The PR push is on for local book signings, starting with the Barnes&Noble book store in Braintree. The Forum article doesn't specify when, but we'll hear soon, so wish me luck, cyber-friends and all.<br />
........................!..................<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Jan. 5, 2011: Frustration, grrr . . . The publisher had to change the price and book cover’s UPC code, so that delay plus time for changes to migrate to Ingram and B&N databases means re-submitting to the B&N buyer for approval, so the book signings are on hold. Why, if I had any hair . . . picture Larry of the Three Stooges pulling his out ;) Otherwise, Happy New Year! <br />
------------------------------<br />
Jan. 25, 2011 - Back on track, but might take few more weeks (sigh, tapping foot, wishing had authorial clout . . .)</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-69071994924421681582010-10-28T23:18:00.000-04:002010-10-28T23:18:22.813-04:00Best Books 2010 Awards, USA Book NewsI found out Tuesday that my novel, <em>South Pacific Survivor: In Samoa</em>, is an Award-Winning Finalist in the Multicultural Fiction category of the Best Books 2010 Awards, sponsored by USA Book News. <br />
Didn't win 1st place, but I am happy. See? --> :) <br />
<br />
Also, one year ago Tuesday, a tsunami destroyed land and lives in Samoa, where Survivor Samoa and Survivor Heroes vs. Villains were filmed. Hundreds were made homeless, many killed. Season 20 had just completed filming when it hit. Survivor used the now-closed Ili’ili Resort for Ponderosa, the pre- and post-game holding area for contestants. Its owner said the show’s use of it saved lives because it wasn’t occupied when the tsunami hit. A Survivor-themed resort is being planned for that location.<br />
<br />
For donation information, visit <a href="http://www.apiasamoa.ws/">http://www.apiasamoa.ws/</a> <br />
Soifua!<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-53557204142799164962010-10-28T12:27:00.002-04:002010-10-28T23:22:38.406-04:00Free Speech at a Price<div>Door Number 1: </div><div> </div><div>After National Public Radio fired Juan Williams, NPR’s Schiller said that the "feelings that [Williams] expressed on Fox News are really between him and his psychiatrist ... but it is not compatible with the role of a news analyst on NPR's air." </div><div> </div><div>Let me preface what I’m about to say with the fact that I love National Public Radio. For years I’ve listened to many of its program. The General Counsel for NPR was my law professor, and even volunteered to be my reference. So, I’m pro-NPR. And I think of Fox News as a conservative talk show masquerading 364 days per year (Halloween excepted) as the news. </div><div> </div><div>Notwithstanding the foregoing (sorry, my legalese slips in now and again), but NPR got it wrong. Juan Williams was not expressing a “strong personal opinion on a controversial subject” in violation of policy. He was expressing his feelings, which is the starting point for good open dialogues and analyses, key ingredients of free speech. </div><div> </div><div>I support Williams freedom of speech as much as I support NPR’s right to fire him. It appears it had cumulative reasons to do so, rightly or wrongly, but NPR outfoxed themselves, this time. </div><div> </div><div>Door Number 2:</div><div> </div><div>The vice-president of Arkansaw’s Mudland School District, Clint McCance, wrote on his personal Facebook page that he wanted gay people to commit suicide, according to The Advocate, a newspaper focusing on gay news. McCance used the terms "queer" and "fag" repeatedly, promised to disown his own children if they are gay and stated that he enjoys "the fact that [gay people] give each other AIDS and die." </div><div> </div><div>To be clear, those are horrrendous statements. They were made under the guise of Christian beliefs (yeah, WTF, not so Christian, is it?), but it wasn’t bullying because it was not directed to any individual and it was on a private FB page. </div><div> </div><div>Nevertheless, I support the First Amendment rights of McCance (who probably turned more purple than Barney typing his crap), as much as I support:</div><ul><li>the town’s right to can his ass</li>
<li>the right of everyone to condemn him, including those from Little Rock’s Trinity Episcopal Cathedral who subsequently protested against him</li>
<li>the right of Anderson Cooper to wag his finger and wage moral outrage, on and on, on CNN </li>
<li>my right to wear a 100% cotton long-sleeved purple shirt on October 20th even though I forgot to wear green last March 17th. </li>
</ul><div>Door Number 3:</div><div> </div><div>I suppose I also support the right to burn flags and Korans in America, but not the correctness or wisdom of doing so. </div><div> </div><div>Hell, let those who exercise these rights in these ways put their money where their mouths are. And let them pay heavily for it, because although love is free, their actions cost us all dearly by demeaning humanity. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Related articles</div><div><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/10/27/juan-williams-fox-news-le_n_774691.html">Juan Williams: Fox News Lets 'Black Guy With A Hispanic Name' Host O'Reilly's Show</a> (huffingtonpost.com)</div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="http://www.zemanta.com/"><img src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=2a1539a7-45f7-48c8-b67d-fb2bfa5001e4" /></a> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-41084854912431510412010-09-23T17:51:00.002-04:002014-12-05T18:01:43.936-05:00I was 120 feet in the air, surrounded by dozens of police and firemen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(Originally published as story of the month at Third.Goal.org).<br />
<br />
I was supposed to leave the country, but it wasn’t looking good, being 120 feet in the air surrounded by dozens of police and firemen straining their necks to see me. It went down like this:<br />
<br />
After living it up one night, I sat alone on my front porch pondering a life of tomorrows because my departure was imminent. An adventurous, altruistic pursuit below the equator had beckoned to me. I was was 24 years old, and felt hesitant to leave the hometown I knew so well for so much of the unknown. <br />
<br />
Sunset Lake came to mind: swimming, and catching fish, frogs, and turtles; skating, generating eerie echoes underneath the ice—thoughts of my youth. And for kids with an edge, there was skid-hopping, a/k/a bumper-jumping. We knew the best corners to dart from to grab the car’s back bumper and squat for this horizontal street-skiing. One time, my gloves got stuck in the bumper and seemed to wave bye as I tumbled away. Luckily, that car returned and I got my gloves back. Yeah, skid-hopping was childish and stupid, but hey, I was then a child and sometimes stupid. When my friends missed the bumper or fell off, I’d keep going, sometimes reaching an intersection where I’d release the bumper, stand, and slide with bravado toward a neighboring pride of skid-hoppers. Once, the rear wheel of an old Dodge ran over part of my knee, but the snow cushioned it. I was unfazed and bragged about it the way boys do, with perceived invincibility.<br />
<br />
Some sense of that invincibility remained as I faced the risk and uncertainty of the Peace Corps. The United States Peace Corps, with uniforms ranging from jeans and T-shirts to world apparel of all sorts. No chevrons please; sarongs and safari shorts it was. A letter had confirmed that I “ship out” next month.<br />
<br />
Nervous energy compelled me off the porch to walk. It was after 4:00 a.m., and no one was around. The houses reflected our middle-class town, a dozen miles south of Boston, where the lawns were more likely to be manicured than the owners’ hands. Leafy limbs beneath the streetlights cast artificial shade onto the sidewalk. Between branches appeared glimpses of the Braintree Highlands water tower ahead. The previous summer, I’d been a member of the crew that sandblasted and painted the tower. It was set atop a hill, and the panoramic view was awesome. A tall chain link fence cordoned the tower. Well, maybe for old time’s sake . . . <br />
<br />
I climbed, carefully got over the barbed wire, and landed on the grass. The built-in steel ladder started thirty feet above the ground. Normally, you’d need another ladder to get to that one. Instead, I grabbed one of the diagonal crossbars that ran between the five tower legs. I shimmied up, grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder, and pulled myself up. <br />
<br />
The bulbous tower loomed, and I saw the narrow platform far above that ran its girth. As I climbed, the temperature seemed to drop because of the breeze entraining my perspiration. Trees began to look like broccoli. At last, I reached the platform and walked all around it, seeing for miles and miles in every direction despite little light from the pre-dawn sky. <br />
<br />
I grabbed the upper ladder section and climbed. The ladder was not encaged here, and I wasn’t wearing a safety harness. A slip would be fatal. Following the contour of the tank, the ladder became horizontal at the apex. I reached the final rungs and sat on them. My white-knuckled grasp relaxed as I caught my breath and puffs of wind caressed my face. I felt on top of the world. <br />
<br />
To my left, the country slept. To my right, the several rivers and the Boston Harbor reflected the pink, pre-sunrise sky. It seemed fitting to see so much of my growing-up grounds all at once, for I’d see none of it over the next couple of years. It felt good to ponder my mission, helping people on the other side of the world, and my assignment, teaching at a technical institute.<br />
<br />
Brighter sunbeams leaned over the saltwater and earthen horizon, gently tapping the sky awake. Peacefulness permeated the soft morning air as God opened his fingers on our side of the globe—let there be light! The sun broke the horizon. Beautiful. <br />
<br />
Then a distant siren disturbed my tranquility. It didn’t sound like a police car. A fire truck; yes, there it was. However, scanning 360 degrees, I didn’t see any fire. The fire truck should pass by on Route 37 nearby, though, so I could track it. It was probably a false alarm anyway. <br />
<br />
Oh, oh, it’s slowing—damn. Is it . . . ? Yes, it’s coming to this side road. It must be me! Could it be? Oh my God! Should I hide? If I lay flat, they probably won’t be able to see me. No, I’d better start climbing down just in case . . . In case a crowd gathered—I couldn’t stand that. I began my descent, carefully, determined not to rush. If they came because of me, I’d rather explain myself than fall and have “Why’d he do it?” whispered repeatedly at the wake. <br />
<br />
The fire truck stopped at the fence. I heard another fire truck siren. Then the accelerating rev of a smaller engine preceded the appearance of Braintree’s finest; and a second police car arrived. I heard doors opening and closing. I dared not take my eyes from my hands as they clenched successive rungs, each timed with my footing. Yes, I did dare; I just had to see. <br />
<br />
I slowed and peaked below. Unbelievable. Their police uniforms and fireproof rubber suits went to and fro among vehicles and at the gate, quickly advancing—to me, frightening blue and yellow streaks as I glimpsed down intermittently. <br />
<br />
Halfway down. Oh, man! What am I going to say? The second fire engine pulled up—no, two more fire engines, their shrill brakes broadcasting maneuvers, surely waking the neighborhood. The gate was unlocked and opened. Several men came through but not in a rush, and most hung back. Why? Was I just another nut to them? Or did they think I was dangerous? Too late to try to run. Not that I would—I’m not a kid anymore. A fourth fire engine arrived. I couldn’t believe it. Almost there. <br />
<br />
One cop and a couple of firemen watched me from inside the fenced-in area. Several responders were by the gate, and some were in or near their vehicles. A fireman approached below, but stayed a healthy ten yards from where I could possibly land. Another fireman joined him.<br />
<br />
I called out to the first fireman, “How ya doing?” <br />
<br />
“Good. How are you doing?” <br />
<br />
“OK,” I answered meekly.<br />
<br />
This was embarrassing. What could I tell them? That my life was at crossroads? That I’d just been thinking? That like Henry David Thoreau—who peculiarly isolated himself at Walden Pond for a pensive period—I chose to live life deliberately? Yeah, right.<br />
<br />
At the end of the ladder, I slid down the pole to earth. Standing, I dusted off my hands as he ambled closer. Surprisingly, I wasn’t apprehended right away.<br />
<br />
“What were you doing up there?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Oh, just looking out. It has a great view.” <br />
<br />
He was watching me warily, probably to find signs of drug or alcohol use, or weapons, or even poison. Things I’d check for if I were in his rubber boots.<br />
<br />
“Yeah?” he probed.<br />
<br />
Sensing incredulity, I had to spill it out. “Yeah. I, ah, I worked here last summer after college. When it was painted, the water tower. I painted, tended the pot—um, you know, the sandblasting pot—and, and stuff.” I shrugged. <br />
<br />
“What’s your name?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Kevin Daley.”<br />
<br />
“Where do you live?” another fireman asked. <br />
<br />
“On Wildwood, just down there.” I pointed longingly in that direction.<br />
<br />
The other cops hadn’t moved in, but they glanced around and whispered to each other. <br />
<br />
I just can’t get arrested! This is crazy. <br />
<br />
“In fact,” I offered, “I live with my mom. She works for the Water Department. Sure hope she doesn’t hear about this. She’d be pretty embarrassed, I guess.” I hoped the Peace Corps recruiters at the Boston office wouldn’t hear of it either--they could retract their invitation.<br />
<br />
One cop walked up to the second fireman and quietly got the scoop from him. I looked away, as tact was important. I recalled a recruiter’s comment on how important tact and negotiation skills would be in foreign contexts. And this context certainly felt foreign to me. <br />
<br />
The cop stepped forward. “Have you been drinking?” <br />
<br />
“Ah, yeah, actually, I had been, but not much, and that was about six hours ago, so I’m not under the influence or anything. I had some friends over last night, after work. See, I’m joining the Peace Corps soon. Actually, they told me yesterday that I leave next month, for Samoa.” <br />
<br />
They stared at me. <br />
<br />
“So, ah, I had a little party. When I went for a walk, after I cleaned up, I just remembered the great view from when I helped paint the tower last summer. You know. Just in a contemplative mood, I guess.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah?” <br />
<br />
“Yeah. Really.” Time for my trump card—had to try it now. “Look, my cousin can verify this, I’m sure.”<br />
<br />
“You’re cousin? Where’s your cousin?” <br />
<br />
“He’s a Braintree police officer.” Where, who—same difference. <br />
<br />
“Who?”<br />
<br />
“Brian [last name redacted].” <br />
<br />
“Brian’s your cousin?<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” I nodded.<br />
<br />
“Well, here he is now,” another officer said with a nod toward the street. <br />
<br />
We all looked through the chain link fence. Coming out of the fourth police car was my cousin Brian. What incredible timing—arriving exactly at that moment; it was kind of surreal. He was looking over at us, but I couldn’t read his face. He walked along the fence and passed through the gate, thumbs hooked on his leather police belt.<br />
<br />
He glanced at me and then his eyes trailed the ground as he approached, shaking his head. “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” his voice trailed off, and then he eyeballed me. “What’re you doing?” <br />
<br />
After I explained everything, red-faced, they let me go. <br />
<br />
Walking home, I glanced over my shoulder at those flashing red and blue lights. When I turned forward again, I smiled. It was a healthy smile, I realized. I was ready to leave Braintree behind and face my future, which I believed to be bright. I was ready to see the other side of the world.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-30719703175659958042010-09-20T10:40:00.002-04:002010-09-23T11:43:20.624-04:00“To have the Quran burned at a mosque is equivalent to having a cross burned at a black church,” said . . .Article about incident in MI etc. <br />
Crossing the line - when you bring "free speech" to someone else's back yard. <br />
Is it a comparable hate crime?<br />
<div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0px 0px;">Related articles by Zemanta</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://r.zemanta.com/?u=http%3A//abcnews.go.com/Politics/anti-muslim-rhetoric-free-speech-hate-speech/story%3Fid%3D11519631&a=23569329&rid=dd307b24-d127-4f72-a5e7-af60aa0d74cf&e=e0cdd6eca2a1c4623514957a69127e89">Anti-Muslim Rhetoric: Free Speech or Hate Speech?</a> (abcnews.go.com)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=dd307b24-d127-4f72-a5e7-af60aa0d74cf" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-17445801071183411752010-09-16T15:58:00.000-04:002010-09-16T15:58:54.061-04:00Qur'an BurningFans of my writing instructor Robert Everz might protest burning his novel, <em>Burning Garbo</em>, but religious books are in a "higher" category. Isn't it sacrilege for a pastor to burn a Koran? <br />
<br />
It seems like using Jesus's hand to slap both cheeks of others, perhaps literally adding insult to injury; and the Koran builds on Judeo-Christian tradition. <br />
<br />
When does freedom of expression and religion become more evil than good?<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-59712384005222081622010-09-08T08:05:00.000-04:002010-09-08T08:05:09.702-04:00Random ShtuffHey, I'm adding a third catagory to collect some material from some funny bastards I know out there. I'll be hunting you down if you don't volunteer or make a suggestion. Mwah ha haaaaaaa!<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-48605518173200941282010-09-02T08:51:00.001-04:002010-09-14T16:28:51.145-04:00To Mosque or Not to Mosque in NYCSomeone call 911 before this gets out of hand. First, if you left the planet briefly like me and aren't up on this controversey, click the link for a quick background. Are loyal Americans sticking up for the victims at Ground Zero in Manhatten? Or are they becoming haters by hating the haters? Allowing vs. not allowing - what are da merits and what are the demerits of each?<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-19706852626120299632010-08-26T14:13:00.001-04:002010-09-16T15:31:26.968-04:00Thanks, guys! However . . .<em>[responding to your comments on FB] </em><br />
<br />
<em>Availability</em> of my novel on Barnes and Noble doesn't necessarily mean sales. However, writing is its own reward, thank God. <br />
<br />
And for whatever glimmer there may be, there is often shadow. The sometimes compulsive nature of creative writing can lead to sacrificing time better spent on family/friends/helping someone, or on earning a living to spend on incessant bills. Maybe the creative mind comes at a cost, like forgetfulness (did I already mention this?) or a touch of dyslexia (a/k/a lysdexia), or depression (sad but true), or poor speling.<br />
<br />
The need to say/write something that gives meaning to life, for yourself and others--is that living or is it avoiding the life that's all around? An existential dilemma, I suppose--why think too much? I have to come down on the side of it enhancing life, real life. That's why we enjoy stories, whether books or movies, because they express values, communicate ideas and feelings, become part of our culture.<br />
<br />
BTW, <em>South Pacific Survivor: In Samoa</em> is also available at Borders--but in Australia, not the U.S.! (Borders.com.au) Go figure. On second thought, don't go figure--go for a walk with your favorite pet or person. I gotta get back to work. Hi ho, hi ho . . .<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-48932945036471450832010-07-28T00:20:00.001-04:002010-09-16T15:34:30.212-04:00Boggers--bogged down with writing ideasI never get writers block. I might come up with crap, but it keeps coming until I can sort it out and flush the flushworthy. I usually end up with a few good nuggets that make me happy even if others see a smear on the page where I see sparkle. Don't we write for ourselves, after all?<br />
<br />
However, I do get writers "bog" - bogged down with too many ideas and not enough time to develope them. Slips of paper, pieces of envelopes, voice recording, mnummonic devices until safe to write a note--all methodology of the bogger. Just go with it; you can always cut it later and store it in a safe place--a digital or physical scrap chest to be unearthed another time.<br />
<div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0px 0px;">Related articles by Zemanta</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://writinghood.com/writing/how-to-defeat-writers-block/">How to Defeat Writers Block</a> (writinghood.com)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=e56b70e3-4e1c-407a-8957-4724c5b80c25" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-23420901318269533482010-07-23T11:48:00.000-04:002010-09-02T08:37:17.319-04:00South Pacific Survivor: In SamoaI invite comments or questions on the POLITICS or HISTORY in the novel. Were the Tripartite treaty and succession documents legal? Should the archipelago be reunited? Should there be reparations whereas the American Samoan islands were arguably taken from "Samoa" by using more force than was used to take Hawaii from its queen and people? Or just chock it up to history and move on?<br />
<br />
Comments or questions on the WRITING, such as the structure, characters, setting, etc? Anything you liked, didn't like or understand? Curios about more?<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5685915951332094258.post-89258795187141126032010-06-09T19:02:00.000-04:002014-12-05T17:28:19.762-05:00Changed Beliefs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What younger beliefs do you no longer follow?<br />
What was radical to you now, but not then? <br />
Or what was radical to you then, but not now? <br />
<br />
Sure, I'm more conservative than my fully idealistic days, but my fingernails bleed hanging on to a renegade streak of non-conformance. GOTTA preserve the creative vitality of life. <br />
<br />
So whatcha think 'bout all dat???</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">www.kevindaley.com</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06053275941155268461noreply@blogger.com1