THE DEEPER TRUTH OF RADIATION – Nagasaki, Hiroshima, and Fukushima

Image via Wikipedia

Radiation: sending out rays; to shine; to glow.
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.

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.

So far, anyway—we came very close to nuclear war during the Cuban Missile Crisis 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.

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 patrol boat during WWII, would agree.

Even if it is an expense for U.S. in a difficult economy—

Everything I touch

with tenderness, alas,

pricks like a bramble.

(Kobayashi Issa, 1763 – 1828)

—we should nevertheless reach out a welcome hand—

Sick and feverish

Glimpse of cherry blossoms

Still Shivering

(Akutagawa, Ryunosuke, 1892 – 1927)

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.

Related articles

• Hiroshima survivors fear new nuclear fallout (cnn.com)
• 2 British Ships Arrive In Japan to Carry Plutonium to US, by MARI YAMAGUCHI 2016

When Cupid Misses the Mark

Image via Wikipedia

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.

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.

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.

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 South Shore Plaza Twin Drive-In Movie Theatre in Braintree.

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).

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.

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 swamp.

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.

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 Creature From the Black Lagoon, because I think we would have lost her.

Yes, I explained. Yes, I wondered what in the world was she wondering. Yes that included, 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 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.

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.

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. 

‘South Pacific Survivor in Samoa’ is first novel by ex-Braintree resident - Braintree, MA - Braintree Forum

‘South Pacific Survivor in Samoa’ is first novel by ex-Braintree resident - Braintree, MA - Braintree Forum

Blog, Slog

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.
 ........................!..................

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!
------------------------------
Jan. 25, 2011 - Back on track, but might take few more weeks (sigh, tapping foot, wishing had authorial clout . . .)

Best Books 2010 Awards, USA Book News

I found out Tuesday that my novel, South Pacific Survivor: In Samoa, is an Award-Winning Finalist in the Multicultural Fiction category of the Best Books 2010 Awards, sponsored by USA Book News.
Didn't win 1st place, but I am happy. See? -->   :)

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.

For donation information, visit http://www.apiasamoa.ws/
Soifua!

Free Speech at a Price

Door Number 1:

 

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."

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

Door Number 2:

 

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."

 

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.

 

Nevertheless, I support the First Amendment rights of McCance (who probably turned more purple than Barney typing his crap), as much as I support:

• the town’s right to can his ass
• the right of everyone to condemn him, including those from Little Rock’s Trinity Episcopal Cathedral who subsequently protested against him
• the right of Anderson Cooper to wag his finger and wage moral outrage, on and on, on CNN
• my right to wear a 100% cotton long-sleeved purple shirt on October 20th even though I forgot to wear green last March 17th.

Door Number 3:

 

I suppose I also support the right to burn flags and Korans in America, but not the correctness or wisdom of doing so.

 

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.

  

 

Related articles

Juan Williams: Fox News Lets 'Black Guy With A Hispanic Name' Host O'Reilly's Show (huffingtonpost.com)

 

 

 

I was 120 feet in the air, surrounded by dozens of police and firemen

(Originally published as story of the month at Third.Goal.org).

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:

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.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I called out to the first fireman, “How ya doing?”

“Good. How are you doing?”

“OK,” I answered meekly.

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.

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.

“What were you doing up there?” he asked.

“Oh, just looking out. It has a great view.”

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.

“Yeah?” he probed.

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.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Kevin Daley.”

“Where do you live?” another fireman asked.

“On Wildwood, just down there.” I pointed longingly in that direction.

The other cops hadn’t moved in, but they glanced around and whispered to each other.

I just can’t get arrested! This is crazy.

“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.

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.

The cop stepped forward. “Have you been drinking?”

“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.”

They stared at me.

“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.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Really.” Time for my trump card—had to try it now. “Look, my cousin can verify this, I’m sure.”

“You’re cousin? Where’s your cousin?”

“He’s a Braintree police officer.” Where, who—same difference.

“Who?”

“Brian [last name redacted].”

“Brian’s your cousin?

“Yeah.” I nodded.

“Well, here he is now,” another officer said with a nod toward the street.

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.

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?”

After I explained everything, red-faced, they let me go.

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.

“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.
Crossing the line - when you bring "free speech" to someone else's back yard.
Is it a comparable hate crime?

Related articles by Zemanta

• Anti-Muslim Rhetoric: Free Speech or Hate Speech? (abcnews.go.com)

Qur'an Burning

Fans of my writing instructor Robert Everz might protest burning his novel, Burning Garbo, but religious books are in a "higher" category. Isn't it sacrilege for a pastor to burn a Koran?

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.

When does freedom of expression and religion become more evil than good?

Random Shtuff

Hey, 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!