September 11: 9-11, Patriotism, Better Than We Are, "The Names"

You will excuse me if I step away from Hitchhiker's on this day.

Today is the anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11.  Eighteen years ago, the world was changed irrevocably.  I'm not going to rehash my memories of that day.  The news playing 24/7.  The images of innocent people jumping to their deaths from those burning towers.  The towers collapsing.  Those ghostly faces of survivors stumbling out of that cloud of dust and dirt and smoke that covered and hovered over everything.

I don't believe in calling September 11th "Patriot Day."  For me, this day shouldn't be about patriotism, creating this feeling of the United State of America versus the world.  I am proud, most of the time, to call myself a citizen of this country.  (These Trump years have tested that pride a great deal.)  The kind of nationalism that exists in this country at the moment, that sometimes gets branded "patriotism," makes me a little ashamed of being an American.

For me, what I remember most about the days following September 11, 2001, is how it brought strangers together.  It seemed to provoke both the best (and worst) elements in human beings.  In some places, people (white, African American, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, man, woman, gay, straight, transgender, immigrant, citizen) felt a united grief and a united hope.  We simply weren't going to live in fear and hatred.  In other places, hatred did emerge, in the form of attacks against Muslim Americans and their businesses and homes.  That was the shameful side of the aftermath of 9-11.

Me?  I hold onto that grief and hope.  The idea that we can all be better than we are.  We can love each other more.  Respect each other more.  Support each other more.  Make the world a better, safer place through kindness and compassion.  That is something I can remember and cherish about this day when so many lost their lives.

So, if this day, for you, is about flag waving and chanting "U.S.A.!"--then this post is not for you.  However, if this day is about remembering the victims, joining together in love and support with all of your neighbors (no matter what color or gender or religion or nationality or sexual orientation), then you are a true patriot.

Saint Marty remembers this day with a poem from Billy Collins . . .

The Names

by:  Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.

A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,

And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,

Then Baxter and Calabro,

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place

As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.

Names slipping around a watery bend.

Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot

Among thousands of flowers

Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,

And each had a name --

Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal

Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air

And stitched into the cloth of the day.

A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.

Monogram on a torn shirt,

I see you spelled out on storefront windows

And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.

I say the syllables as I turn a corner --

Kelly and Lee,

Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,

I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden

As in a puzzle concocted for children.

Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,

Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,

Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.

Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.

Names silent in stone

Or cried out behind a door.

Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.

A boy on a lake lifts his oars.

A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,

And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --

Vanacore and Wallace,

(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)

Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.

One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,

The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

September 10: I Write Novels, Mr. MAGA, Selfless Love

Ford and company are still dealing with the cops who are having existential crises . . .

Ford shouted out, "Hey, listen!  I think we've got enough problems of our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!"

Another pause, and then the bullhorn again.

"Now see here, guy," said the voice, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially!  I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterward in seedy space-ranger bars, like some cops I could mention!  I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterward for hours to my girlfriend!"

"And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop.  "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!"

In a very funny way, this section illustrates a pretty important lesson.  These cops, who are trying to kill our heroes with Kill-O-Zap guns, have lives and problems and hopes and ambitions.  One has a girlfriend.  The other is a would-be novelist/writer.  Their two-dimensional character types (stupid, bloodthirsty bad guys) are battling their three-dimensional character developments.

Of course, we all go through our days judging people, putting them into categories that make sense to us.  If I see someone wearing a "Trump 2020" tee-shirt, I will make certain assumptions about that person--that he is a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot.  That is before I've spoken with that person, found out that he has a mother in a nursing home and has just been diagnosed with lymphoma.  Based on my shallow first impression, I immediately dismiss Mr. MAGA, make him less than human, which is exactly the tactic Donald Trump has been using during his whole time in office.

It's a question of control.  Using labels, we are able to approach a person/group of people not as fellow human beings.  By doing this, we cast ourselves as somehow superior.  It's a tactic that's been used throughout history.  It's how slavery was justified in the United States.  It's how Jews were sent to concentration camps in Nazi Germany.

If you call yourself a Christian, then you know that isn't really the way Jesus Christ operated.  For me, that is one of the great lessons of the Gospels.  Christ always hangs out with people from the lowest classes.  Fishermen.  Tax collectors.  Lepers.  Samaritans.  Gentiles.  Christ--because of his God-self--didn't judge these individuals.  He met them, ate with them, visited their homes, touched their wounds, loved them, and made them whole.

And that was one of Christ's greatest gifts--the ability to see all people as children of God, worthy of love and hope.  That Christ gift is something we should all try and emulate in our day-to-day interactions.  It's the way I try to be every day of my life, some days more successfully than others.  Anger and frustration have been my companions all too frequently in the last few months.  They have become comfortable emotions for me, especially when dealing with the irrationalities of mental illness and addiction.

Tonight, I have to remind myself to be more Christ-like.  To accept and love people in my life, despite their brokenness.  Or maybe because of their brokenness.  That's a tall order, especially if that brokenness causes you pain and heartache.  And that is another of the great lessons of the Jesus narrative.  Christ gave up His life for the human race, even though those humans didn't really deserve it.  In fact, those humans were kinda assholes to Him.  But that's what selfless love is all about.  And I ain't there tonight. 

It's time for bed.  Maybe Saint Marty will do better tomorrow.  There's always hope.

A reminder from a friend:

September 8: That's His Problem, List Making. Johnny Cash

A little exchange between Ford and Zaphod . . .

"What did he say?" whispered Ford in astonishment.

"He said it isn't easy being a cop."

"Well, surely that's his problem, isn't it?"

"I'd have thought so."

Welcome to my Sunday, which has not gone exactly as I had planned.  Now it is your turn to say, "Well, surely that's your problem, isn't it?"  Yes.  Yes, it is.

I am a list-maker.  Every morning, I sit down to write out my to-dos.  This morning's list was not very extensive, but, unlike yesterday (when I finished everything on my list), I have accomplished next to nothing today.  In fact, this blog post is the last thing that I will be able to check off.

You may think that sounds more than a little bit anal retentive.  I like to think of myself as simply organized.  It's the way I keep myself from going insane every day.  My daughter has inherited my penchant for lists.  Friday night, as we were eating supper together, she and I actually shared our list-making strategies and the satisfaction we feel when we can actually cross off every item on our daily lists.  My wife listened to us, shook her head, and said, "My God, she is her father's daughter."

So, today, I had six things to accomplish.  I was only able to get to four of them.  The rest will be moved forward to tomorrow's list.  I hate going to bed, knowing that there are already items that need my attention the next day.  However, I cannot avoid it this evening.

If you, like my daughter and I, suffer from this list affliction, take heart.  You are not alone.  In fact, you're in pretty good company.  Writer Umberto Eco once said, "The list is the origin of culture.  Wherever you look in cultural history, you will find lists."  Benjamin Franklin was the father of to-do lists, including a 13-week plan to "practice virtues such as cleanliness" and temperance.  Johnny Cash's daily to-do list was pretty basic:

1. Not smoke.
2. Kiss June.
3. Not kiss anyone else.
4. Cough.
5. Pee.
6. Eat.
7. Not eat too much.
8. Worry.
9. Go see Mama.
10. Practice piano.

Johnny Cash did pretty well for himself.  (By the way, Cash ended that list with a note to himself to "not write notes.")

I don't know if I've made my case for the importance of list-making.

Saint Marty will have to make a list to try and figure that out.

September 7: Being a Cop, Passions, Secret to a Happy Life,

Zaphod and crew have a run-in with some interstellar cops in the middle of an identity crises . . .

Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards.

Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out.  They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay.  They glanced about wildly.

"Which way you reckon, Zaphod?" said Ford.

"At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall.  As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall.

A voice on a bullhorn said, "Okay, Beeblebrox, hold it right there.  We've got you covered."

"Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and spun around in a crouch.  "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?"

"Okay, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks.

At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armored and space-suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun.

"We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure.

"Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back, and dived down a wide gap between two data process units.

The others swerved in behind him.

"There are two of them," said Trillian.  "We're cornered."

They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall.

They held their breath and waited.

Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously.

"Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball.  "I though they said they didn't want to do that."

"Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford.

Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment.

"Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again.

They waited.

After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!"

It isn't easy being anything.  I'm sure a nurse would say that it isn't easy being a nurse.  A college student would say it isn't easy being a college student.  Ditto a heart surgeon.  Ditto the school custodian.  In my working life, I've learned that most people think their jobs are the most important and most difficult.  Doesn't matter the job.

For example, I could say that it isn't easy being a contingent college professor.  No health benefits.  Working semester-to-semester with no guarantees of re-employment every four months, and the full-time faculty get paid twice (sometimes three) times as much as you for teaching the same class.

Or I could say that it isn't easy being a church organist.  The compensation for all the hours spent planning, practicing, and playing is minuscule.  And, come Christmas or Easter--the high holidays--the stress and demands triples or quadruples.  Plus, you have to work EVERY weekend, sometimes playing two or three services. 

Every person in every occupation has similar tales.  The truth of the matter is that a job is a job.  It can be stressful or stress-free, tiring or energizing, sad-ful or joyful.  A job is what you make of it.  A person who works at McDonald's can take just as much pride in his labors as a brain surgeon.  That's the simple truth.

I'm lucky, in a way.  I get to do what I love--teach writing and literature and film.  I don't do it full-time (which would be my dream job), but I still get to do it.  I love being in a classroom full of young minds.  Love feeling the weird, funky energy they impart.  I can honestly say that teaching is what I was meant to do with my life.

I would say that most people stumble through their lives, never really knowing what their purposes are.  They never find that one thing that fulfills them.  It's not about money or fame.  It's about passion.  Most people I encounter have no idea what their passions are. 

Me?  I'm passionate about poetry and writing and movies and books.  My mother was passionate about quilting.  She loved it.  My father was literally passionate about plumbing.  He truly loved what he did.  He kept the tools of his trade in his trucks up until the time he couldn't drive anymore.  I think the people who are most unhappy and dissatisfied with their lives are the ones who have no idea what they're passionate about.

When you don't know what puts a fire in your belly, then you turn to other, unhealthy preoccupations.  Addictions even.  Because the addiction fills that void.  Temporarily.  But pretty soon the drug wears off, alcohol transitions to hangover, sexual partner of the day goes away.  What's left?  The same emptiness that you were looking to fill.  So it's more drugs or more alcohol or another sexual partner.  It's a pretty vicious circle.

I count myself lucky.  I know my passions.  And, because I know them, I'm a better person.  That is the real secret to a happy life.

This message has been brought to you by Saint Marty.  Husband.  Father.  Brother.  Poet.  Teacher.  Organist.  Blogger.  Thinker.  Friend.