Going Home

 One of the best responses to the argument that dreams are but random firings of brain cells is, "Then why do we have recurring dreams?" The notion here is that if dreams were so random, why do we seem to have dream motifs or even the same dream over and over again?

I was thinking about this after a repeated motif in my dreams came up again the other night.  I'm in a strange city, usually staying in a hotel somewhere unfamiliar.  I can't seem to get back to where I'm staying or supposed to be.  I walk the streets looking for a familiar neighborhood, mostly for safety reasons.  Sometimes, I'm at a conference and can't find the way back to a hotel room. On other occasions I'm with childhood friends and then suddenly find myself alone, unable to phone them or anyone else for that manner.  One variation even has a dysfunctional cell phone in my possession.  I realize that I should just call someone or Lyft and get a ride home, but the phone is usually an old flip-phone and it disintegrates in my hands as I try to find a number to call.  

Sometimes I wonder about the origin of these dreams, off just exactly what it is that in behind their origin.  I'm reminded of an experience I had many years ago while serving as a VISTA Volunteer in all the wrong sections of Houston, Texas.  Most of my service was in the inner city, the 3rd Ward, to be exact.  But Houston, in 1969 was regarded as one of the most violent cities in the country.  In fact, the 5th Ward was known as "Blood Alley," and the word on the street was that if a 24 hour period ever went by without at least one homicide, it would make headlines in the Houston Chronicle.  I actually saw that during my year there.

Given this context, here's the experience I had.  I had gone to a movie with three other VISTAS. It was in downtown Houston on a Friday night.  That was a big deal because we had very little money and simply wanted a break from the intensity of the training we were completing.  Around 10:00, when the movie let out, we were faced with the issue of finding our way home.  Home for us was a placement with a poor family who lived in the worst poverty pockets in the inner city.  I was the only one who needed to get to the 3rd Ward. A few others were in the 4th and 6th Wards and at least had one or two others with them.  Bus service was dicey at that hour, so we set off walking in various directions.  My trek "home" would take about 40 minutes to an hour.  A single, white guy walking in an all Black neighborhood at that hour was not a good idea.  I had no choice.  Even in daylight hours I'd get asked for money and if I had paid my "protection fee."  That's just the way it was.  This was before the crack epidemic that would hit in the 1980s, but the evidence of folks getting high was all over the ground.  Empty bottles that once held Boone's Farm Apple wine and MD 20/20.  The latter was a cheap Mogan David  20 proof red wine especially targeted for the ghetto.  Robitussin cough syrup bottles were also plentiful examples of a cheap high.  

I walked for about half an hour. It was now completely dark.  The last mile was still ahead of me and the street scene was getting more active.  I began to get looks, then stares.  I stopped at a well lit gas station. I noticed a pay phone and then it hit me.  During my daytime walks in this neighborhood I had seen what were known as "Transportation Services."  Predating Uber and Lyft, these were enterprising locals who stenciled their names, i.e. "Brown's Transportation Service" on their car doors and, unlicensed, went about hauling locals to church, the grocery store, or laundromat for a nominal fee.  For a dollar or two, you could get a round trip to a doctor appointment.  Win/win.  I remembered the name of one such service and called for a pick-up.  A young man about my age appeared driving an old model Chevy and I asked for a ride to Drew Ave.  15 minutes later, I arrived at the home of the Miller family, with whom I was staying during my VISTA training.  Problem solved.  I had only about 3 dollars and some change in my pocket, but, as I recall, this little one-way trip only set me back 2 dollars.

Relieved, I thanked him and managed a 50 cent tip.  He spoke very little, but the look on his face told me he was wondering what the Hell this kid was doing here at this hour.  

I've come to believe that this experience might be part of the reason for one of my recurring dream motifs.

To Look for America

 In the last few days I've put on some miles.  Accompanying my sister from her move from Bozeman, Montana to Vancouver, Washington, gave me a quick look at much of rural America in some of the most beautiful country this nation has to offer.

For a fly fisherman, like myself, driving by some of the best waters in Montana, Idaho, and Washington, (Oregon too) is pure torture.  But just being there, even if only for a brief moment, is sometimes enough.

To someone who has lived most of his life in an urban environment, what is most striking is the lack of diversity is many of these areas.  Of course, that is just a cursory observation because there are Black, Latino, and Asian folks everywhere.  In these Northwestern states, there are also large Native populations. The preponderance of Indian casinos everywhere is a not so subtle reminder of that.  But many of these little towns are ranching communities and the residents are conservative, fly the flag at every opportunity, and value the space between them and their neighbors.

We stopped for gas at a combo gas station/market in Clinton, Montana. In beat up old Jeep Wrangler, with the steering wheel on the other side of the front seat was a 20 something woman who was the local mail carrier.  I wondered if the job had been passed on in her family.  Seemed like a good secure job to have in that area in these troubled economic times.  She filled the Jeep while staring at her cell phone screen, much like anyone her age.  Later, on our way back to I-90, I saw her crawling along the frontage road extending her arm out to the mail boxes that lined the street.  There was no other movement on this Tuesday morning in Clinton, save the few cars that wizzed by on the highway. 

Despite the proliferation of fast food restaurants every so often, this area has a few brew pubs and diners that give travelers much needed food options.  Every town seems to have a Chinese, Italian, and Mexican place.  The pubs and restaurants that offer standard fare all seem to have a Cattleman's burger and a vegetarian choice.  If it's called the Cattleman's burger, it better be high quality because cattlemen abound in this region.

The mountain passes were filled with low hanging clouds and the wintry mix of rain/snow.  On the downhill side, were drizzles, an occasional cell of driving rain, and some weak sunshine.  

I look at the people that inhabit these places and wonder about their politics, their personal lives, and their hopes and fears.  They might do the same with my presence.  Yet, one thing is now fascinating for me.  Years ago, when I first started to drive across the country and would stop in rural towns, it was glaringly obvious, because I was young where I stood on political issues and what my values were.  In the 60s and 70s, your hair length was often a mirror into your thoughts, beliefs, and values.  Right or wrong, people were quick to judge.  today, my gray hair and beard, my age, and overall demeanor make those judgements impossible.  In short, I look like every other 70 something old duffer in town complete with ball cap and jeans.  This makes me smile. 

Diagnosis

 We've had phone conversations for over 60 years.  From the time we met at 9 years of age in a Little League dugout, Kenny was my friend.  After we ended up at the same Jr. High school, and later went to high school together, our friendship cemented.  It helped that we shared the same birthday.  Having a close friend with the same birthday can be hazardous because we often get caught up in our own birthday that we tend to forget, even temporarily that we have a friend that needs to be remembered too.

Over the years, Kenny and I shared a love for the same type of music, most notably Blues and Jazz, as well as a healthy Giants/Dodgers rivalry.  For a time, Kenny was my fishing buddy, having some experience in fly fishing.  For about 5 years we even planned and enjoyed a summer fishing trip in either Oregon or the Sierras.  One year, however, Kenny decided he wasn't going to fish, but rather just wanted to enjoy sitting by a river.  He was always a little odd like that.  My wife even thinks he might be "on the spectrum."  Either way, Kenny has always been a contrary.  

In high school we were both involved in senior class politics. I was class president, and Kenny was a cheerleader. In those days, each Senior class had a name, class colors a fight song, a motto, and cheerleaders.  Hard to believe now, but that was such a big deal back then.  Our class colors were Powder Blue and Black and all the guys wore powder blue tux jackets to the prom.  Kenny wore a coral orange.  Kenny was a contrary.

It was in the late 60s that Kenny and I really bonded.  Despite going to different colleges, we were both still at home and on weekends would go to see all the budding rock groups, the traditional blues and folk singers, and many "foreign films" together.  Growing up in LA had its advantages in that regard.  In fact, I once made a list of the Blues greats we saw at the old Ashgrove on Melrose Ave. That list included the likes of Son House, Howlin" wolf, Lightnin" Hopkins, Arthur Crudup, and Sleepy John Estes.  Taj Mahal and Big Mama Thornton were also regulars at that club.  In many ways those trips from the Valley to the city over Laurel Canyon were transformative.  

A few months ago I noticed that Kenny was becoming harder and harder to communicate with over the phone.  He'd had some health issues, including a bad case of bronchitis, but it seemed as if his voice would be clear and then break up as if he were walking away from the phone.  After that it seemed as if I couldn't make sense of what he was referring to, or as if his words were muddled.  I once got a voicemail from him that really made no sense, as if someone was telling you something important with no context.  

Recently, I learned that Kenny has been diagnosed with dementia.  That answered many of my questions.  His denial and inability to communicate exactly what has been going on now seems normal.

Although I've had some experience with Alzheimers, this diagnosis for Kenny hit me like a gut punch.  I slowly have realized that he will no longer be able to drive, and that our phone conversations may get even more problematic.  His partner tells me that he still enjoys reading. I hope he can continue to do that because he's always been a withdrawn type and being able to read will make his days easier to pass.

It will take me a good while to process all this and figure out how t support Kenny and how best to continue our friendship without any undue stress on him or his partner.  In any event, I know I'll never miss his birthday.

Not Like They Used To

 

With some help from friend Jory Aronson, a great mandolin player, here is an up dated version of my "Levi Song."  

To the tune of The Streets of Bakersfield by Buck Owens...or something similar.

        Levi Song

They don’t make ‘em like they used to

I won’t buy them at the store

The Levi’s I once knew and loved,

They don't work for me no more.

The fabric is by far much thinner,

It don’t last too long this way.

The blue jeans that were once a winner,

Don't hold up from day to day.

Chorus;

Levi has become the essence

Of a known phenomenon.

They have built-in obsolescence,

Corporate greed continues on.

Maybe I sound sentimental,

Perhaps a little bit berserk,

Still, I issue out a warning,

Don’t wear Levi’s when you work!

Condemned to Repeat:Trump Supporters CLUELESS About What Caused The Civil War

This YouTube video is both shocking and revealing. One one level, using a definition of ignorance  as “not knowing” you might conclude that these folks just don’t know American history too well. On another level they are disgracefully ignorant. Who draws a blank when asked What caused the Civil War?  More importantly why?

If there is anything that anyone with a basic education knows in the country it's the story of how our democracy came to be.  We yearly celebrate the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln.  Certainly, these folks in the video have heard of them?  Maybe not.  Lincoln, above all is arguably the most iconic figure in American history.  He's on our calendar, our money, and easily recognizable.  

Maybe, like Nikki Haily, they just don't want to say the word slavery.  That would acknowledge the racist history of our country and the thread of white supremacy that runs through our entire history from its inception to the present.  For 35 years, I went to teacher's conferences and visited the publisher's displays.  Every book published or used in a school has a chapter or two on the Civil War.  It is impossible to take any Jr. High or High School history class and not be exposed to some coverage of the causes of the Civil War.  Most give a combination of reasons from vague explanations of how the two sections of the country, North and South, had different economies.  But always, slavery is mentioned as the leading cause.  As Lincoln, himself, said, this nation cannot long exist "half slave and half free." 

Maybe the videographer sought out the most ignorant folks he could find.  Or perhaps he did 50 or more interviews and focused on those who came up empty. No matter, my suspicion is that the same result would occur at any Trump rally.  Why is that?  Your call.  

In his latest book, And There Was Light, historian John Meachum explores the life of Abraham Lincoln and his constant struggle to lead the country during the Civil War years.  Henry Louis Gates, in his review of the book, notes that Meachum has given us "a Lincoln for our times."  He certainly has, for the similarities between then and now are most striking.  The country then as now with the abortion debate, vis a vis the slavery debate was dealing with an enormously divisive issue. Both sides invoked their notions of God to justify their thinking.  

Lincoln worried about the loss of the democratic experiment that is our government.  Insurrectionists had taken up arms.  Not so far from today's crises.  Looks like we are faced with a Presidential candidate again who does not value democracy as Lincoln did.  Being Republicans is about the only thing they have in common.  Lincoln was an avid reader and often quoted Greek Philosophers and Shakespeare.  

Too bad there wasn't a literacy requirement to run for President.  A reading list would be a good thing.  It might eliminate those who would be bound to repeat the less noble aspects of our common history.  I wonder if the current Republican candidate for President knows what caused the Civil War?

 

They don’t make ‘em like they used to

I can’t buy them at the store

The Levi’s that I once knew

I can’t wear them any more

The material is far thinner,

It don’t last too long this way

The blue jeans that were once a winner,

Do not last from day to day.

Context is Everything

In the early 1970s ethnic studies classes for high school students were less controversial than today. The term “critical race theory” wasn’t used yet and most of these classes were merely an attempt to tell the truth no matter how difficult or ugly. People were ready. Inclusion was long overdue. 

Working in a school district with high percentages of black and brown students, I inherited a program called “Minority History.” 

This was a one-year course divided into two semesters. The first was an entire semester devoted to black history. The second semester featured teaching units on Native American history,  Mexican American history, Asian American history, and units on Women’s history. Women, as a minority group, was an early attempt to develop and teach a curriculum that dealt with sexism as well as racism. 

I found myself in charge of this program because it originally belonged to the woman I student taught under and because I was a recent College grad with an undergraduate major at UCLA in African American studies. That was based on the first Black history and literature courses offered there. It garnered some notoriety because the celebrated athlete Kareem Abdul Jabber was also in those classes.

While my supervising teacher left me resources and access to her curriculum, I was free to enhance what existed and develop my own as well. A major theme in my course was the relationship between concepts like image, identity, and power. While I had done a fair amount of research on African, Mexican, and Asian Americans, it was difficult to find usable resources dealing with Women. The second wave of the feminist movement was in its infancy then, but materials were being developed urgently. 

I’d gone to a workshop sponsored by the California Council for the Social Studies and picked up some ideas. The woman who led the workshop presented a slide show focused on images of women in literature. Included were some images from First-grade readers. Many of us present that day learned to read with Dick and Jane books. Looking at some of the images that day, after 25 years or so, we easily saw how sex roles were developed and reinforced. The following week I went to the curriculum library at the School of Education at UC Berkeley, where I‘d graduated the year before. I did not find Dick and Jane, however, I did find a more contemporary reader called Janet and Mark. 

As I scanned the pages, my jaw dropped.  Some things became painfully obvious.  Whenever Janet and Mark rode in the car with their parents, the males were in the front seat and the females in the backseat. When Janet wanted to do something independently, she made a cake with her mom "for Daddy." Mark, however, declares in another chapter "I want to make something. I can make something good."  He then proceeds to put together a car from an old wooden box and some wheels he finds lying around. Very skilled and independent is the message. But the coup de gras comes in a story where Mark is shooting baskets at a hoop mounted on the garage. This driveway setup is identical to what millions of kids have and remember. They can easily relate to the graphics. When Mark finally lets Janet take a shot, she throws up an air ball, (missing the backboard entirely) As Janet shoots, the text reads, “Up up, up and down.” The accompanying graphic is Mark laughing, covering his mouth with his hand. When Janet refuses another attempt because she has been shamed, the graphic shows Mark pointing at her while the text reads, "She is just like a girl, she gives up."  I swear that is exactly what it says on the printed page. This sexism is so blatant that it’s difficult, even now, to see how this book made it to publication. 

The following week I put together 35 copies of this story from a First-grade reader and used them in my classes. My students were just as shocked as I had been. We had great discussions about the consequences of these visual images and messages. Others reported that Janet and Mark were the book they learned to read with. 

A few weeks later, a rumor got back to me that I thought so little of my student's skills and abilities that I resorted to First Grade reading level material in my classes. Again, my jaw dropped. Obviously, my use of Janet and Mark had needed to be understood. Again, my classes and I discussed this new issue. In retrospect, I suspect a parent may have seen one of the story copies in their student’s notebook and assumed the worst. Context is everything.