The past week the media has been in a perpetual frenzy over the tragic mass killing last Monday of 32 people at Virginia Tech University by Korean-born VT student Seung-Hui Cho. The story has been told and retold on every show of every station. Teams of reporters scrambled to be the first to introduce the tiniest of details. And a steady stream of opinionated hosts and guests sounded off on the culpability of all parties intersecting with Mr. Cho before and during his horrendous killing spree: His parents should have known, his classmates should have been kinder, his teachers more alarmist, those he harassed should have prosecuted, the police should have intervened, the Virginia Tech administration should have been more proactive and NBC News more discrete.
I have very few opinions on these subjects. I don't know the participants or the details well enough to make a judgment. I doubt that there was willful negligence from anyone. We love to assign blame, but sometimes very bad things just happen.
And I am a little embarrassed to admit that it's difficult for me to share the pain of the victims. If I stop to think about it, it saddens me to consider the senseless loss of life and the grieving families. But since I was old enough to understand the tragedies of this world, I have built an emotional wall of defense that protects me from profound depression: I can think about these things intellectually, but don't let myself feel the suffering or the grief of others. It's too much to bear.
Consider not so ancient history in this world of ours: It's been estimated that 10 million Africans were shipped to the Americas in the slave trade. Maybe a third died in their first year due to disease and acclimatization. (Some estimate that as many as 30-50 million Africans died from slavery worldwide.) Looking for something more recent? Just over 50 years ago, seven million Jews died in the Holocaust. Let that one sink in a little. Want to bring it up to date? The Rwandan genocide of 1994 resulted in the deaths of nearly one million people--mostly Tutsis. Or consider this: An estimated 16,000 people in this world die from hunger every day--that's about one every five seconds, while 60% of Americans are overweight, and one in five is obese.
It seems to me that in the relative comfort of my home, sitting at my laptop while digesting my Sunday dinner, that I had better direct my attention to happier thoughts, because if I dwell on these any further I will be overcome with guilt for doing so little, for not making a meaningful contribution to solving these problems, or alleviating this suffering, for not doing what little good that I could do.
I am sorry for the tragedy at Virginia Tech. But in my quiet hour of contemplation, I weep for all the world, for my own insignificance, and for my silent contribution to man's inhumanity to man.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
New York Ditty
I spent a few days last week in New York, which never fails to fascinate me. Yes, New York is uniquely American--with the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, The Empire State Building, Broadway, the U.N. Plaza and Ground Zero. And at the same time, there are many things I can't stand--crazy traffic, crowded streets, nasty smells and outrageous prices. But what always intrigues me is the people.
New York is the Brazilian taxi driver, who works seven days a week, but is buying a dry cleaning store in Sao Paulo and hopes to retire and start a family before he is 40. Or the Nigerian cabbie, talking in his native tongue on his cell phone, while he races wildly through Manhattan, wearing his driving recklessness like a badge of honor.
New York is two black guys, one with a green Yankees cap, walking slowly down the sidewalk, talking loudly and profanely, as if all the world was their audience. Or the woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase and walking rapidly through the crowd, eyes straight ahead, confident that a path through the bodies will be opened up if she refuses to break stride.
New York is an Iranian woman who says she is "Persian," or a white guy who must quickly tell you he's Italian.
New York is a sanitation worker who loads garbage in his truck with a swagger, or a bearded African-American wearing a beret, with serious intent, carrying around a Norman Mailer novel that might be too big for his satchel; or two guys with skinny-legged jeans and nouveau haircuts that now must wear rainbow scarves to distinguish themselves from all the straight guys dressing metrosexual.
New York is Japanese businessmen looking serious, architectural students looking up, and fashion-model women looking glamorous.
New York is a street musician chanting in an unknown tongue, a hot dog vendor yelling to a friend across the street, or a taxi driver honking madly at the car in front, which has paused a nanosecond too long at the light.
New York is everyone and New York is no one. New York is people who will be happy to give you their opinions on Rudy Giuliani, terrorism or the New York Yankees, but are clearly irritated if you ask them for directions.
New York is eight million people living a world apart; a third foreign-born, speaking 170 languages and all in endless pursuit of love, happiness and a good-paying job. That's life in New York, and everywhere else as well.
New York is the Brazilian taxi driver, who works seven days a week, but is buying a dry cleaning store in Sao Paulo and hopes to retire and start a family before he is 40. Or the Nigerian cabbie, talking in his native tongue on his cell phone, while he races wildly through Manhattan, wearing his driving recklessness like a badge of honor.
New York is two black guys, one with a green Yankees cap, walking slowly down the sidewalk, talking loudly and profanely, as if all the world was their audience. Or the woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase and walking rapidly through the crowd, eyes straight ahead, confident that a path through the bodies will be opened up if she refuses to break stride.
New York is an Iranian woman who says she is "Persian," or a white guy who must quickly tell you he's Italian.
New York is a sanitation worker who loads garbage in his truck with a swagger, or a bearded African-American wearing a beret, with serious intent, carrying around a Norman Mailer novel that might be too big for his satchel; or two guys with skinny-legged jeans and nouveau haircuts that now must wear rainbow scarves to distinguish themselves from all the straight guys dressing metrosexual.
New York is Japanese businessmen looking serious, architectural students looking up, and fashion-model women looking glamorous.
New York is a street musician chanting in an unknown tongue, a hot dog vendor yelling to a friend across the street, or a taxi driver honking madly at the car in front, which has paused a nanosecond too long at the light.
New York is everyone and New York is no one. New York is people who will be happy to give you their opinions on Rudy Giuliani, terrorism or the New York Yankees, but are clearly irritated if you ask them for directions.
New York is eight million people living a world apart; a third foreign-born, speaking 170 languages and all in endless pursuit of love, happiness and a good-paying job. That's life in New York, and everywhere else as well.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Race to Racism
A couple of items in the news have caused me to ponder our irrational phobia about racism in America. The scandal du jour, which has kept the talk show engines humming, is the firing of Don Imus, who quipped on his national radio and television show that the black, tattooed Rutgers womens basketball team that played for the NCAA championship looked like a bunch of "nappy-headed hos." He was trying to be funny. He was completely in character, eschewing the PC perspective for shock-jock candor. And of course, as everyone realizes (and none more so than Imus himself), he went way over the line.
Like clockwork Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out, as unofficial spokespeople for all African-Americans, to jostle for media time and credibility. (As an aside, I bet those two hate each other.) Fearing that they might be accused of insensitivity, or even the support of racism, advertisers started pulling out in droves. And under broadscale attack from prominent blacks nationwide, the networks grudgingly let the axe fall on Mr. Imus' head.
Now here is the thing: No one really thinks Don Imus is a racist. I have heard the tape of the ill-fated show, and I think he was just trying to be funny, before a live national audience, and his brain fell a couple of steps behind his mouth. First, one must be more circumspect when the target of one's humor is female college students, not to mention minorities. These girls are not quite public figures, and are still entitled to that modicum of decency that we all too quickly disregard for celebrities of Hollywood or athletic fame. One certainly does not refer to youthful amateur athletes as "hos," even in jest.
Second, one could pounce upon the term "nappy-headed," which has come to describe kinky and unkempt hair, generally on African-Americans. I heard one black woman on television describe this term as blatantly racially offensive, and I think most of us that are sensitive and exposed to this type of social etymology would avoid using the term to describe blacks. Although, we should admit that this sensitivity is not universally shared. A second woman on the same talk show thought the whole "nappy" hub-bub was related to the slang British term for a diaper, a point of ignorance which I doubt that she will ever in her life live down. And of course, such terms are always subject to a double standard, depending on who is saying them, meaning that rapper Playa Fly can without impunity record the song Nappy Hair and Gold Teeth ("If you growing nappy rolls you and playa super down ...") and turn a profit, presumably selling mostly to blacks.
But most damning in the Imus statement is the subtle link of superficialities common to the African-American culture with moral degradation. Black basketball players have broadly taken to tattoos, which in my personal taste are generally applied in excess. It's only natural that at least some black female basketball players, copying the moves and style of the men, would likely want a few tats of their own. Suggesting that this makes them look like whores is a dangerously implicit generalization about a race and a culture, the kind we are all vulnerable to and must guard against, but particularly those that speak in public forums, like Mr. Imus.
Having gone on too long about this, I have no objection to Imus being fired. But I am intrigued by the double-standard from those that are protesting most loudly. Rap music has taken the debasement of women, particularly black women, and turned it into an art form--and "nappy-headed hos" might be considered a term of endearment compared to some of the lyrics, which have explicitly and graphically advocated violence and sexual abuse to women. Where are the advertisers throwing themselves dramatically in front of the wheels of commerce to "do the right thing"? Where are Messrs. Sharpton and Jackson, expressing outrage and calling for boycotts? Where are the Hollywood liberals, condemning the state of today's rap music as base and perverse? Possibly all waiting for an invitation to one of those legendary parties hosted by top-tier rappers.
Frankly, Don Imus is an easier target. He's one guy. He's getting old, and all claims to cool have passed him by. And, of course, he's white.
Like clockwork Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out, as unofficial spokespeople for all African-Americans, to jostle for media time and credibility. (As an aside, I bet those two hate each other.) Fearing that they might be accused of insensitivity, or even the support of racism, advertisers started pulling out in droves. And under broadscale attack from prominent blacks nationwide, the networks grudgingly let the axe fall on Mr. Imus' head.
Now here is the thing: No one really thinks Don Imus is a racist. I have heard the tape of the ill-fated show, and I think he was just trying to be funny, before a live national audience, and his brain fell a couple of steps behind his mouth. First, one must be more circumspect when the target of one's humor is female college students, not to mention minorities. These girls are not quite public figures, and are still entitled to that modicum of decency that we all too quickly disregard for celebrities of Hollywood or athletic fame. One certainly does not refer to youthful amateur athletes as "hos," even in jest.
Second, one could pounce upon the term "nappy-headed," which has come to describe kinky and unkempt hair, generally on African-Americans. I heard one black woman on television describe this term as blatantly racially offensive, and I think most of us that are sensitive and exposed to this type of social etymology would avoid using the term to describe blacks. Although, we should admit that this sensitivity is not universally shared. A second woman on the same talk show thought the whole "nappy" hub-bub was related to the slang British term for a diaper, a point of ignorance which I doubt that she will ever in her life live down. And of course, such terms are always subject to a double standard, depending on who is saying them, meaning that rapper Playa Fly can without impunity record the song Nappy Hair and Gold Teeth ("If you growing nappy rolls you and playa super down ...") and turn a profit, presumably selling mostly to blacks.
But most damning in the Imus statement is the subtle link of superficialities common to the African-American culture with moral degradation. Black basketball players have broadly taken to tattoos, which in my personal taste are generally applied in excess. It's only natural that at least some black female basketball players, copying the moves and style of the men, would likely want a few tats of their own. Suggesting that this makes them look like whores is a dangerously implicit generalization about a race and a culture, the kind we are all vulnerable to and must guard against, but particularly those that speak in public forums, like Mr. Imus.
Having gone on too long about this, I have no objection to Imus being fired. But I am intrigued by the double-standard from those that are protesting most loudly. Rap music has taken the debasement of women, particularly black women, and turned it into an art form--and "nappy-headed hos" might be considered a term of endearment compared to some of the lyrics, which have explicitly and graphically advocated violence and sexual abuse to women. Where are the advertisers throwing themselves dramatically in front of the wheels of commerce to "do the right thing"? Where are Messrs. Sharpton and Jackson, expressing outrage and calling for boycotts? Where are the Hollywood liberals, condemning the state of today's rap music as base and perverse? Possibly all waiting for an invitation to one of those legendary parties hosted by top-tier rappers.
Frankly, Don Imus is an easier target. He's one guy. He's getting old, and all claims to cool have passed him by. And, of course, he's white.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Plane Truth
On a flight to Phoenix the other day, Lanee and I sat next to a lady from Idaho--a first-grade schoolteacher who is retiring this spring after forty years in the classroom. Besides being chatty, opinionated and funny ("I had to quit golf because I swear too much!"), she had a lot to say about the effects of legislation and regulation on education.
What's new in the world of education, according to our traveling companion?
1. Because of education reform, she has to publish all of her lesson plans a week in advance. So if the class fails to understand a principle, the teacher isn't supposed to adapt to conditions, but must hold to the pre-ordained schedule or risk violating policy.
2. Some astute observer of the fire code pushed forth the law that a maximum of 20% of classroom wall space can have paper hanging in it, and none in the school hallways. So the teacher can't hang up student papers and the children are denied the one thing they universally need--recognition.
3. Teachers can't hug kids anymore, a law that I suppose was designed to suppress the seeds of abuse. So these little six-year-olds who are neglected at home can't be touched. And when her students say "I love you" and try to give a hug, our teacher's dictated response is to push the child away and say "thank you."
I am reminded of Philip K. Howard's stirring book, "The Death of Common Sense: How Law is Suffocating America." The problem isn't the bureaucrats, it's the philosophy of excessive and controlling regulation that hamstrings the bureaucrats, that takes away their decision-making authority, the opportunity for common sense to intervene. It's the notion that the answer to every problem lies in the legislative process, and that it is possible to virtually eliminate such life fundamentals as risk and injustice given sufficient space in the legal code.
I suspect that most laws do more harm than good. I think we're all for protecting our personal rights and property, but those rather modest aims could be accomplished with but a small percentage of our legislative text. I have seen the process of law-making, and it is no surprise to me that most laws are bad laws--flawed by someone's self-interest, by political wrangling, and, most commonly, by unforeseen consequences.
I think maybe there ought to be a one-year review period for new legislation--so generally the same political powers are in place. But give everyone that has been affected a chance to tell their stories, and let us all reconsider, and be given the opportunity to vote again, this time a little more enlightened by the reality of its consequences.
And I think the world is a better place when a first-grade teacher can hug her kids.
What's new in the world of education, according to our traveling companion?
1. Because of education reform, she has to publish all of her lesson plans a week in advance. So if the class fails to understand a principle, the teacher isn't supposed to adapt to conditions, but must hold to the pre-ordained schedule or risk violating policy.
2. Some astute observer of the fire code pushed forth the law that a maximum of 20% of classroom wall space can have paper hanging in it, and none in the school hallways. So the teacher can't hang up student papers and the children are denied the one thing they universally need--recognition.
3. Teachers can't hug kids anymore, a law that I suppose was designed to suppress the seeds of abuse. So these little six-year-olds who are neglected at home can't be touched. And when her students say "I love you" and try to give a hug, our teacher's dictated response is to push the child away and say "thank you."
I am reminded of Philip K. Howard's stirring book, "The Death of Common Sense: How Law is Suffocating America." The problem isn't the bureaucrats, it's the philosophy of excessive and controlling regulation that hamstrings the bureaucrats, that takes away their decision-making authority, the opportunity for common sense to intervene. It's the notion that the answer to every problem lies in the legislative process, and that it is possible to virtually eliminate such life fundamentals as risk and injustice given sufficient space in the legal code.
I suspect that most laws do more harm than good. I think we're all for protecting our personal rights and property, but those rather modest aims could be accomplished with but a small percentage of our legislative text. I have seen the process of law-making, and it is no surprise to me that most laws are bad laws--flawed by someone's self-interest, by political wrangling, and, most commonly, by unforeseen consequences.
I think maybe there ought to be a one-year review period for new legislation--so generally the same political powers are in place. But give everyone that has been affected a chance to tell their stories, and let us all reconsider, and be given the opportunity to vote again, this time a little more enlightened by the reality of its consequences.
And I think the world is a better place when a first-grade teacher can hug her kids.
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