The Difference Between U.S. and Europe

 I’m in something of a quandry.  I would love to share some of the experiences I had while on our month-long trip to Albania and Italy, but I do not wish to bore people to the point they will not read past the first couple of lines.  How do I convey my thoughts, feelings and impressions without becoming a travelogue?  I have decided to break up the 28 days we were gone into topical lessons learned, avoiding the deadly dullness of the chronological travelogue motif.

I have observed over the years that European countries share some commonalities that set them apart from our American society.  Traveling in Europe is at the same time familiar and foreign.  Traffic signs, for instance, tend to be understandable to most Americans, the exception being all those squiggly lines the Brits paint on their roads.  Even the word “Stop” on the recognizable red hexagon sign appears in some countries where English is not the official language.  But it is the differences I would like to explore in this post.

I have decided that all countries (sometimes cities within the countries) can be divided into two main catagories: used-toilet-paper-in-the-toilet countries, and used-toilet-paper-in-the-trash countries.  Ewww! I hear you through the digital expanse as you ponder this.  If you want to travel outside the U.S., you will need to learn how to handle this.  We spent one night in Thessaloniki, Greece.  It was a nice hotel with all the modern conveniences one would expect.  The room and furnishings were very nice, the included breakfast was superb, but the toilet paper had to go in the little trash can.  It is not their fault.  Their plumbing would, no doubt, handle the extra load, but the old city system will not.  This is the only Greek city I have been in, so I do not know how the rest of the country ranks in this area.  Albania, our next stop, is pretty much exclusively a toilet-paper-in-the-trash country.  They also are a trash-anyplace-you-feel-like-throwing-it country, except in the better neighborhoods where everyone takes pride in keeping “their” portion of sidewalk and street cleaned and swept.

Traffic procedures and expectations is another area of difference

for which traveling Americans must adjust.  In the U.S., the pedestrian is sacrosanct (with the exception of a few places like New York City).  Not so in most of Europe.  In Albania, one must grab the hands of any little ones in his charge, look both ways, estimate the approximate arrival time of the closest vehicle headed his direction, and stop off the curb at his own risk.  If a person is walking down a narrow cobblestone street with no sidewalk available and a car approaches, he must move to the side as far as possible.  If that move is not made quickly enough, he will be encouraged by the blast of the car’s horn.  There are, interestingly enough, signs indicating the presence of crosswalks, though they seem to carry about the same amount of meaning as stop signs, which is no meaning at all.  Pretty much the same attitude exists in Italy, though I noticed bus drivers stopped for pedestrians waiting at a crosswalk. In the U.K., of course, one must learn to look to the right for approaching traffic, and that’s not as easy as it sounds.  Ingrained habits are difficult to modify.

Let me put in a good word for a traffic pattern device many Americans would likely resist, mostly out of ignorance.  The traffic circle, or roundabout, is common in Europe and I have grown to love them.  They likely were introduced as a means of handling multiple roads meeting at one intersection.  Most American roads are on a grid pattern, a situation easily handled by our current stop sign or traffic light system.  The huge advantage to the roundabout is that no vehicles have to stop and wait for a light to change, even when there is no other traffic for miles.  The roundabout does require some courtesy, which may immediately rule out any chance of them being successful in the U.S., but along with a small dose of patience the roundabout is a great way to keep traffic moving.

The last difference I would like to address is eating.  We found it interesting that in the 28 days we were gone to Greece, Albania, Italy, and England, the only sign of childhood obesity we observed was at the McDonald’s restaurant in Tuscany.  In Greece and Albania there is a steady diet of fresh vegetables, especially tomatoes (I don’t want to hear about how they are fruit), fruit, non-processed meats, and fresh breads.  Italy, of course, offers plenty of pasta choices, and pizza at every turn.  Diners in all three countries love taking advantage of the warm summer weather to eat outside every chance they get.  Any restaurant with access to even a few feet of outside space places a table and some chairs there.  For some reason, there are very few problems with bugs or bees.  It’s a dining experience I much prefer over the normal, noisy inside seating.

In my most recent post, I described the conditions of a portion of Albania’s population who are misused, abused, neglected and often despised.  First-hand experience is the only way I would have ever been emotionally connected to what I already knew intellectually.   Nobody can truly appreciate what other people experience without first-hand observation.  I always encourage people to make travel a priority.  Call it a vacation, a holiday, a mission trip, or visiting friends, just go.  Stumble through the learning of a few foreign words, feel awkward in a room where you are the only one who doesn’t speak the language, be humbled by the independence and tenacity necessary for everyday life in a country that has not been taken over by a nanny state.  Save your money.  Take a trip.  Don’t stay at the Hilton or even the Best Western.  Ride a bus, take a train, board a ferry, rent a car, walk.  Experience another part of the world.  You’ll return with a much greater appreciation for others and their circumstances.  Can’t afford overseas travel?  Ride a Greyhound bus to L.A.  Sit on the bench with everyone else waiting for the bus.  Strike up a conversation with the folks across the aisle.  Examine your feelings as you stand in that bus station in L.A.  Just step out of your comfort zone and learn something.

Next time: What I learned from all those old buildings.

My Albanian Vacation

I stood in the 8'x12', reeking-of-urine, sparsely furnished room and thanked God that I would not have to postpone the Italy portion of our trip while I waited to see if I would need rabies shots. There were many other things for which I could be thankful after my experiences of the past couple of hours, but that was the one that was forefront in my mind at that moment.

Karen and I had joined our daughter, Rebecca, and an Albanian Christian worker on a mission to deliver food boxes to some of the needy families they worked with. You must not think this "needy" resembles anything like the way we use the word in the United States. I'm not referring to people who are needy because they can only afford public transportation, or who fill out the forms to get a free or reduced lunch from the school, or who can't afford more than the basic data plan. No. Let me explain what "needy" means in so much of the world.

Our first stop was supposed to be to deliver some food to a single mother with several kids. The trouble was, nobody, not even one of her sons, seemed to know where she was. The kids were staying with the grandparents. Rebecca didn't want to leave the food with them because there was a very real possibility the perpetually drunken grandfather would trade it for booze. But, when we visited the house where the mother should have been, it was empty, except for the trash strewn about outside and in. One of the two rooms of this broken down, leaky, hovel was suffering from a severe case of the roof sags. Even a short person would have to duck to walk under this sagging roof (there was no ceiling, just the roof). There was no electricity nor running water. There was a 1/4" pipe out at the curb that supplied a trickle of water they had to carry into the house. It had once been suggested that the woman and her children should use the sunlit yard to grow some vegetables, but the landlord put the kabash on that idea. He comes by periodically to cut the weeds as feed for to his rabbits. Oh, I didn't mention that this habitat most of us wouldn't consider worthy of housing our animals has a landlord? Indeed, he takes half of the 4,000 Lek ($40) the woman gets from the government every month.

We took the boy with us as we drove down dirt roads, over brown grass, past dilapidated buildings to deliver some food to another single mother and her brood. She lived in a lower corner of one of those dilapidated buildings. Her situation was much better than the situation just mentioned. Her two little rooms had electricity, water from a constantly running pipe in the anteroom, and even a washing machine. Her living room, complete with two old sofas and a bed, was neat and clean. So was the brand new baby, the cutest little girl you could imagine, her jet black hair thick and shiny. It turns out, we had arrived just in time, as the baby's food was gone. The mother thought she had purchased baby formula, but since she can't read, it turned out to be sweetened condensed milk.  This is a woman Rebecca and others had tried to help get started in a small enterprise, earning money from selling used clothing. But, due to ignorance, lack of initiative, or both, that venture never panned out.

Our next stop was in the seediest part of town, at least from what I have seen. Whereas most cobblestone roads in the main part of town are swept and washed almost daily by the women who live in the property adjacent to each section, these roads were filthy and occupied by not just poor people, but creepy looking people. The main business in the immediate vicinity was a bar known for the prostitutes who work from there. We were headed for the home of the grandparents of the boy who was riding with us. It had been decided that his mother was not going to be located, so it would be better to give the food to the grandparents and hope it was used as intended. As soon as the car stopped, an old, very drunk man was at the window with his hand out. Grandfather continued to ask for money for cigarettes as we gathered around the grandmother to discuss the situation. Though I understand only two words of Albanian, it was obvious from his tone and body language as he spoke with our Albanian helper that he believed that I was rich and should give him his liquor money. He finally gave up and walked to a nearby step and sat down.

After the food was delivered inside, and as we were saying our good-byes, another man walked around
the corner, all smiles, and stood with two of the young girls in the family. He is not related to them. He works, it was revealed, for the owner of the "bar" around the corner, probably recruiting both clients and staff. We left with the sickening feeling that those young girls either were or soon would be working for him.

Our last stop was back across town in the general vicinity of Rebecca's home. We parked in front of an old, run-down office building that had been converted to small apartments. Electricity is available, but each renter must walk down to the park to fill containers with water from the public spigots. We walked up the two flights of stairs and down a long, dim hallway. We had almost made it to the last room on the right when a protective mama dog made an attempt to take a chunk out of my right calf. A man standing nearby smacked the dog and we hurried into the little room where I sent up my prayer of thanks. For some reason, the parable of the two men praying in the temple came to mind. You know, the one where the Pharisee prayed, thanking God that he was not a sinner like the robbers, evildoers, adulterers, or even the tax collector standing next to him. The tax collector prayed and asked God to be merciful to him a sinner. It would have been so easy to pray that Pharisee's prayer, without the attitude of self-wrought superiority. Instead, as the woman who lived in this small room with her children prayed, thanking God over and over for watching out for them, I moved from thankfulness regarding the dog situation to asking for mercy on those poor, struggling, dregs of society, cast aside by prejudice and social and legal injustice.

So, it will be difficult, I hope for a long time to come, to complain about just about anything in my life. How insignificant my problems seem now. Does it really matter that I have to keep putting air in one of my tires?
At least I have a tire. Does it make any difference if I have to wait a few minutes for my computer to do what I want it to do? I have a computer and so many other electronic gadgets. I hope I will forever stop before I even begin to complain about my little first-world problems.

I hope you will be gracious and forgive me if I don't appear sympathetic to your little problems either. I just can't bring myself to care too much about how long you had to wait in line at Starbuck's, how that $600 stroller doesn't move just like you want it to, how your bed is so uncomfortable, or what a horrible day you had in your air-conditioned home with a fully stocked pantry and your clean, healthy, educated children, or how mean your boss was to you today after you drove one of your fully functioning vehicles to your comfortable little office where you earn enough money to buy your wife and children closets full of clothes and designer shoes. I just don't seem have it in me to grieve over such things right now.

Don't misunderstand. I am not opposed to accepting and using the rewards of hard work and wise investing. I just believe we need to get back to the beginning of all of it. We didn't get to choose where to be born; which country, what strata of society, or which chimney down which we were dropped. Therefore, all the privilege we enjoy is a gift from God, or should I say a responsibility? So, what right do I have to grumble about anything? What right do I have to shut out of my mind the horrid conditions into which others have been placed, and the injustice that keeps them there? I know I can do without this or that if doing so would help others, like my daughter and son-in-law, care for those in desperate need.

So, my challenge to each of us: Use the next moment of frustration caused by our wealth and condition to remember those in true need. And pray that it will change our lives.  Maybe even dedicate ourselves to actually doing something about it.  If I think and plan carefully, I just might be able to come up with another few bucks to dedicate to this or other ministries to the truly needy.

What Do Giving Blood and Voting Have in Common?

     It was 1:45 P.M.  I changed my shirt.  I always wear a red shirt when I give blood, in case there's an accident at the recliner.  I pulled into the parking lot at Evalyn Bishop Hall, parked in between two barely visible parking space lines, and walked toward the entrance.  The location of the two Blood Source buses forced me to take a small detour.  After rounding the front of the lead bus, I was forced with a decision. Should I give blood first, or vote first?
     I walked in the blood donor door.  The round table just inside was well-stocked with brown BloodSource t-shirts, neatly sorted in piles according to size.  Other than the workers, I was the only person in the room.  "Are you here to vote or give blood?" a voice to my left asked.  There were the usual three volunteers at the table with the books of names of people qualified to vote in this precinct, and the familiar sight of the row of polling places.
     "Well, that depends.  Who's giving away the best stuff?" I retorted.
     "They're giving out shirts.  We'll give you a sticker," one of the women at the table answered.
     I told them I'd go ahead and give blood first, then, when I was faint from blood lose, I'd cast my votes. The young blond chick at the round table asked what size shirt I wanted.  The front on each shirt was emblazoned with 27 white drops of liquid and one red drop.  "Be the one...give blood" was the message beneath the raining drops.  I got a large, because I need room when I flex.
     I was directed to sit outside in one of the chairs lined up against the wall.  Most of the chairs had people sitting on them waiting for the doors on the blood buses to swing open.  I decided I'd have time for the short ballot, so I left my shirt and the two laminated sheets of warnings, instructions and explanations on an unoccupied chair and went back inside.  One of the women, who I knew but whose name I couldn't recall, shoved a book in front of me and told me to sign just below my wife's signature.  A second woman, who's name I couldn't recall because I don't think I knew her, handed me a ballot and a pen and pointed me toward the row of empty polling tables.  I passed the low one, even though there was no sign of a voter in a wheelchair, and stepped up to the first tall one.  I filled in the ovals with the ink from the cheap black pen, then allowed the special machine to eat my completed ballot.
     By the time I returned to my chair outside, everyone else was gone.  I made small talk with Kristi and the young blond chick until a nurse waved to me from the back door of the back bus.  I knew she was a nurse because she was wearing a brown nurse outfit.  I can be sharp like that sometimes.  I squeezed into the tiny seat on the far side of the narrow aisle, faced Nurse #1 who was now sitting in an identical tiny seat with a tiny table in between us.  Music intruded into my tiny space from a tiny speaker next to my right ear, "I am a lineman for the county..."  What ever happened to Glen Campbell?  Where exactly is Wichata?   No time for those thoughts.  She asked me my name, and told me she needed to see some picture ID.  I took my license out of my wallet and laid it on the table.  I just couldn't resist, "Why do you need to see my ID if I am voluntarily donating blood, but the voting people can't ask me for any ID when I'm casting a ballot restricted to registered voters?  Do you people discriminate against poor people who can't afford picture IDs?"  I apologized after she laughed nervously.
     After sitting in a side seat intended for two large people and filling out the usual, invasive questionairre,     It was time for the dreaded finger prick.    This required entering a tiny room, sitting down and positioning my feet so the large man, Nurse #2, could squeeze through the doorway and past me to his seat.  The last time I had been at the BloodSource donation event, they had turned me down because of a problem with my hemoglobin. This was the big test.  Had eating all that broccoli, spinach and red meat paid off?  Would I be turned away again, after being offered the obligatory donut?  No.  I passed the first test.  O, the joy!
     On to the main event.  That recliner toward the front of the bus.  Being assigned that particular seat/bed meant having my right arm bored into, and it meant facing the rear of the bus.  I hate riding facing backward.  I made a comment about the sub-arctic air temperature.  One of the three A/C vents was right above the aisle next to my recliner.  I suggested, to anyone within earshot, which was pretty much anybody in the bus, that maybe they should issue blankets to their patients.  I'm no dummy.  I made sure there was a jocular tone to my voice so Nurse #3 with the needle wouldn't be ticked off.  Everyone laughed, adding their own semi-funny comments to the new discussion.  #3 asked if I was ready to give some blood.
     "I'm thinking I'm giving blood cubes today," was the reply that nearly brought the house down.  I'm telling you, sometimes I really crack myself up!  Nurse #3 thought those would go well with a Bloody Mary.  Levity can be a good thing when people are lying around with blood pouring out their arms into plastic bags.  Nurse #3 was busy with the guy across the aisle from me.
     I sat there thinking about my sidewalk project.  Should I stagger the bricks or line them up in identical rows?  There are eight columns, so that would mean the column on the left would be different than the column on the far right.  I pretty much planned the whole project before #3 handed me a squishy cylinder and told me to squeeze three times then hold it.  After painting a spot on my arm for 30 seconds, in went the needle.  The red shirt proved unnecessary.  All the blood went into the tube as planned.
     "See the tree, how big it's grown, and friend it hasn't been too long; it wasn't big..."  What the heck?!  I remember that song.  Bobby Goldsboro, 1968.  "And Honey, I miss you.  And I'm being good.  And I'd love to be with you, if only I could."  Something didn't seem right, and I said so.
     "Hey, do you guys always play dead girl songs while you're taking blood from people?"
     After the briefest of silent pauses, Nurses #1 and #3 laughed.  After they were sure it was funny, the other three donors chuckled as well.
     There was a brief time when I had apparently stopped sending blood into the plastic bag.  I know this because #3 told me the bag hadn't gotten any heavier after it was about 2/3 full.  I suggested perhaps it had frozen in the tube.  She adjusted the needle a little and declared the blood flow once again normal.
     In response to people commenting about how funny I am, my wife has told people at various times and various venues that I'm not that funny at home.  I say it's all in the ear of the hearer.  I brought laughter to a bus (did I mention how tiny everything in there was?) full of people being bled.  That can count toward justifying my existence for this day.
     Now, back to the original question: What do giving blood and voting have in common?  I sure you can come up with some great answers.
   
     

Some People Crack Me Up!

     When I started this blog, I was hoping to not only educate, but to help people see the lighter side of life.  Lately, I have found myself seeing less and less humor in life.  I'm the one who needs to lighten up.  With that in mind, here's a little seriousness mixed in with a little humor.  How little?  You will have to be the judge.
     Recently, my wife and I were standing in line at a quick mart down the street.  She always has to have a Diet Pepsi before we drive out of town.  So there we were, standing behind several men, being patient because we are glad we live in a small city where the pace is generally a little bit slower than big cities.  I have been volunteering with the local police department for several years.  Nothing too dangerous, just patrolling without weapons or any authority of any kind, and directing traffic when there is a big event, like the annual Little League parade.  I have decided to try to be a better observer.  That means noticing important things about other people, like eye and hair color, clothing, height, and any special markings or tattoos.  I realized quite awhile ago that I often wouldn't be able to give police a good answer regarding what my wife was wearing should she ever be kidnapped and held for ransom, or if she wandered off as a result of a sudden onset of dementia or an attack of shopaholicism.  I then began a little mental inventory of my closest acquaintances and discovered I often could not be sure what color eyes they had.  So, I've been practicing looking for those things.  During that process, I have inadvertently become something of a critic of ladies' shoes.  That really has nothing to do with the topic sentence of this paragraph.  In fact, much of what you just read doesn't belong in this paragraph.  I'd better start over.
     There we were, standing in line, waiting to pay for our sodas, when I noticed something about the man at the counter.   He was about 5 feet 10 inches tall, weighed about 250 pounds, short, blond hair, wearing blue trousers, white sneakers (That's an anachronistic term, but I'm not sure what to call them these days. He obviously wasn't a runner, so they couldn't be running shoes.  He didn't fit the tennis player stereotype, so I hesitate to call them tennis shoes.  Deck shoes, cross-trainers, basketball shoes.  Nothing seemed to fit.  It's a dilemma.), and a short-sleeved, tan shirt that was unquestionably too short for him.  He was standing upright, not leaning over or bending over, but there it was; the unmistakable butt crack.  I quietly asked my lifelong partner, "You think he's a plumber?"  Her reaction was a mixture of grotesque offence and controlled, but obvious humor.
     As we stood there, I began thinking about what was wrong.  Suspenders, I decided.  He needed suspenders (or braces, as folks in the UK call them [this is the education element]).  I started thinking about people I knew or have seen who wear suspenders.  They sometimes are part of a fashion statement for some women who don't actually need to worry about their pants falling down, having ample hips to inhibit such malfunctions.  I knew a large man who wore them all the time because his hips were pretty much non-existent.  His pants ended just below his belly, but there was no difference in the circumference of his body at the belt line and the circumference at the hip-hop, saggy pants "waist" line.  I would normally describe this as just below his butt, but he didn't seem to actually have a butt.  His suspenders were a necessity, not an accessory.  Have you ever noticed that all the men whose trousers fall down while being videotaped (recorded?) for America's Funniest Home Videos have the same issue; no butt?  Then I thought about a guy I had seen recently who wore suspenders and a belt.  I remembered thinking that he must be a very cautious man, having a redundant system perchance one or the other should fail.  Who was that guy?  It was our turn to pay for our drinks.  The man had left without my noticing his face.  I tend to shut down some senses when I'm thinking about other stuff.  That's pretty much all the time.  Thus, my need to concentrate on what people look like.
     As I held the door open for my other half, it hit me.  The answer to the question about the man with the backup system on his pants, not the door.  It was that guy that was just arrested for answering a Craig's List ad from an underage girl who turned out to be a police officer executing a sting operation.  Maybe he didn't wear a both a belt and suspenders because he was overly cautious after all.  Must have been a fashion statement.

My Suggestion for an Alternative Tax Collection Process

                How informed are you when it comes to paying your taxes?  I fear many Americans grumble and complain a little just to be polite, but if asked could not say exactly how much they paid in taxes last year.  I strongly suspect most people filing a 1040 long form only take note of line 76.  They write their check for that amount, or worse yet, rejoice that that government is going to give them that amount.

                First, the government is not “giving” you the amount on line 76.  They are “refunding” money you gave them that exceeded your obligation.  In other words, they withheld too much from your paycheck, and now they are giving it back to you without interest.  It is not a gift.  And it doesn’t mean you didn’t pay taxes.  (I don’t even want to get started on the notion of Earned Income Credits).  Of course, about 40% of those filing a return pay nothing to support the federal government or actually get money from the federal government instead of having to contribute to the cause.  But, unless you are one of those in that 40%, you aren’t getting a gift.

                Second, the amount you write on the check to send in with your 1040 is generally not the entire amount of taxes you paid for the year.  That is just the amount of money you still owe after the IRS already deducted a bunch.  They didn’t take enough, so they want more.

                Finally (sort of), the taxes you contribute to the federal and state governments are not the only taxes you paid last year.  I also paid about 8% for every dollar I earned every time I purchased something at the store.  That’s 8% on a dollar that has already been taxed by the federal and state governments.  Depending on where you live, you may or may not have to pay taxes for groceries.  But you will pay an additional tax for alcohol, and maybe for things like imported foods, candy bars, and soft drinks.  You also paid special taxes every time you filled the gas tank.  In California, some of that is supposed to go to maintaining our roads, but somehow it occasionally gets diverted.  Tax has become such a disgusting word to some people, so often you will pay a “fee” instead of a tax for things like fire protections districts.  If you own property, you paid property taxes and perhaps taxes to special districts and money to pay off voter-approved bonds.  So, don’t think for a moment that the check you wrote to the IRS or state government is what you paid in taxes last year.

                Now, lest you think I am some sort of anarchist or tax evader, let me explain why I believe it is important that we all think about this matter of taxes.  The federal government alone has more than a $17 trillion dollar debt (http://www.usdebtclock.org/).  That means each of us taxpayers would have to pony up about $152,000 to pay it off.  But since our elected officials are spending about $626 billion dollars more than we are all contributing every year, the debt relieve we would experience by paying it off would be short-lived.  I would love to see the debt paid off completely, as I strive to do with my personal finances.  But why bother if it’s just going to balloon again?

                I also don’t mind paying taxes if that money goes to effectively running the government so I and my family are protected from those who would harm us, the infrastructure I need is built and maintained, and other essential services are provided.  My gripe is that I know many of my tax contributions are being wasted or stolen.  My money is being used by government employees to attend lavish conventions that are probably not essential to them performing their jobs.  My money is being used to help foreign governments figure out how Sesame Street characters can be adapted to their cultures.  My money is being spent on determining if Japanese quail are more likely to be amorous while high on cocaine.  My money is being used to pay people to target specific groups for denial of tax exempt status simply because the groups are perceived to be in opposition to the current administration.  My money is being spent on determining why chimps throw their poop around.  I suspect they are just aping politicians they’ve seen on TV.

                I have a proposal that will never be seriously considered by any elected official.  I call it the Truth In Taxing Act.  Here’s how it would work.  First, taxes would no longer be due on April 15^th.  They would be due on the Tuesday before the first Monday in November.  Election day is on the Tuesday following the first Monday in November.

                Second, every single person over the age of 18, whether they worked or not, whether they owe any taxes or not, would have to write the following information on an official form:  The total amount they earned the previous fiscal year.  The total amount of money the government is keeping or demanding.  The percentage of their total income they are contributing to the government.  Then they would have to sign the form and write a check for what they still owe.  If they are getting an Earned Income Credit, they would have to sign a thank-you card to the 60% who are supporting them.

                Just an idea.  

Whatever Became of Justice?

                Justice is slowly disappearing.  In 1973, Karl Menninger wrote a book entitled Whatever Became of Sin?  The title is worth the cost of the book.  His primary message was that things that were once considered evil, or wrong, or contemptible had begun to be deemed as sicknesses that by and large are not the perpetrator’s fault.  In the forty years since that publication, that trend has only increased in pervasiveness.  Right and wrong have been replaced by “my truth and your truth.”  Criminals are now victims of society, in need of understanding and rehabilitation.  So, whatever became of justice?

                Now, I am all for rehabilitation, but not until justice has been served.  Justice?  What’s that?  An old-fashioned idea that when a wrong has been committed a price needs to be paid.  Property damage caused by negligence needs to be compensated appropriately.  Infliction of physical harm must result in some time away from society.  Theft, be it burglary or Wall Street slight-of-hand, ought to result in both compensation and jail time.  It shouldn’t always be about rehabilitation.  It ought to be enough to simply punish an evil person, to extract a payment for an unacceptable deed.  Justice needs to be enacted simply because it is the “just,” or right, thing to do.

                Even if Menninger was right about the idea of right and wrong having boarded a train bound for yesteryear, there remains a legal code specifying various consequences for behavior still deemed unacceptable by a wimpy society.  The problem we are now faced with concerns the execution of that legal code and it’s consequences.  We are plagued by activist judges who believe they have the right, even the duty to override law enacted by the people in order to implement their own misguided ideas of justice.  Sometimes, of course, they have ulterior motives that include pandering to cronies, getting re-elected, or padding their re-election checking accounts.

                Superior Court Judge Jan Jurden must be a misguided soul.  I imagine she actually believes she is doing the “right” thing; that she is a sympathetic, caring person who uses her high office to be kind to the wayward souls brought before her bench.  Either that, or she has some ulterior motive.  Recently, this Delaware judge sentenced Robert H. Richards IV to eight years suspended jail time, meaning he will never sleep a night in prison.  He will have to check in with his probation officer  every month, but he will serve no jail time.  Why?  Because Judge Jurden believes he “would not fare well” in prison.

                I have several objections to this sentence.  Let me begin with the least important and work my way up to the only issue that should matter.  First, since when is anyone supposed to “fare well” in prison?  Since when is the perpetrator’s well-being more important than the person or persons harmed by his actions, or those who might be harmed by him in the future?  Being locked up is for the punishment and/or rehabilitation of the offender, and to keep society safe, at least for a few years, while that criminal is kept off the streets.  I really don’t care how a convicted felon “fares” in prison.  If he can’t do the time, he shouldn’t commit the crime.  And if he is a threat to others, he needs to be separated from all of us who understand the need to follow some basic laws, especially those that prohibit the harming of others.

                Second, there is some speculation that Mr. Richards IV may have been given special consideration because he is an incredibly wealthy member of the famous du Pont family.  There is no way of knowing for sure what Judge Jurden’s motives were, but there is no doubt that an appearance of evil exists concerning her sentencing of this very influential man.  Justice is supposed to be blind to prejudices concerning race, gender, national origin, and financial status, among other considerations.  Those little statues of Lady Justice present in so many courthouses should depict her wearing a blindfold and holding scales that are equal.  Adding to the appearance of evil is the fact that the state of Delaware never disclosed any details about the trial.  We only know about it because the now-former Mrs. Richards IV is suing her ex-husband.  How can any of us not at least wonder if this man’s sentence was so unbelievably light simply because of who he is?

                Third, and the one reason that ought to be able to stand alone, it is generally accepted, and has been since the days of Old Testament law, that a person’s punishment should fit the crime.  That is the very definition of justice: the quality of being just, or fair.  Of course, if that word “punishment” has been stricken from courthouse considerations, this adage is somewhat meaningless anyway.  But, I believe most people still hold to this basic belief.  There are misdemeanors and felonies.  There are stiffer penalties for deliberate acts than for negligent acts.  Sentences increase with society’s view of the seriousness of the crime.  This assumes a value system, as loosely defined as it may be, that assigns graduated values to the victims and corresponding punishments for the offenders.  Mr. Richard’s sentence, eight years of monthly probation visits, court-ordered mental health care and a fine of $4,395 (chump change for a du Pont), indicates society places a low value on the victim’s loss.  If it was deemed a serious crime, the punishment would be proportionately serious.  That was justice is, right?

                What was the crime to which he freely confessed?  He raped his three-year-old daughter.  And his ex-wife claims he also molested their son.  He raped a little girl, so he gets to check in with his probation officer once a month.  Justice?  It certainly cannot be defined by the outcome of this case.  How much is that little girl’s safety and mental/emotional future worth?  Not much, apparently.  She will have to live the rest of her life with the effects of what this male person (he’s not a real “man”) did to her.  Her future spouse and their children will have to live with the effects of this guy’s actions as well.

                But, rest easy America, he won’t be sent to prison where he “would not fare well.”  He is safe from the old-fashioned idea of fair and impartial punishment that fits the crime.  The progressive definition of “justice” has been meted out.  Thank you, Judge Jurden for protecting Robert H. Richards IV from any hardship as a consequence of his raping of a three-year-old girl.  We all feel better now.

"One Nation Over God"

                Recently, I was listening to a Michael W. Smith song, Breakdown, and was struck by a line he used, “One nation over God, is that what we’ve now become?”  Morality is now defined by the consensus of society, and those in the minority are scorned, belittled, criminalized and denied the freedoms our founding fathers fought so laboriously to ensure.  Morality is no longer viewed as a fixed standard established by an immutable God, but a sliding scale determined by focus groups, polls, and social media.

                A short time ago the Kansas legislature was presented with a bill, not yet voted on, by Charles Macheers that would have exempted any private business or public employee from providing, “…any services, accommodations, advantages, facilities, goods or privileges…” related to any “…marriage, domestic partnership, civil union or similar arrangement…” if those actions would conflict with that person’s “sincerely held religious beliefs.”  Another proposed Arizona law, vetoed by the governor, was similar, though perhaps more expansive.  The point of both efforts was to protect the First Amendment right to freely exercise religious beliefs.  Both were specifically, though unmentioned in either bill, written in reaction to the growing number of states legalizing homosexual marriages.

                My limited understanding of both pieces of legislation leads me to conclude that the authors’ intents were honorable, but the practical applications would have been onorous.  The freedoms delineated in the First Amendment were not intended to be unlimited.  The framers of the Constitution knew there must be limitations on speech.  We all know we can’t maliciously shout, “Fire!” in a crowded theater.  The press are not free to print libel.  And though it may be a sincerely held tenet of one’s religion, people can’t be sacrificed on any religious altar.  All of our rights must be balanced on the scale of fairness to others.  The pieces of legislation referred to above, while submitted with good intentions, appear to unfairly limit the freedom of others for the sake of “religious liberty.”

                However, after reading an op-ed in the Sunday, February 23, 2014 edition of the Sacramento Bee, I had some concerns that the authors of these bills must have had as well.  The article was written by Leonard Pitts, Jr., a writer for the Miami Herald.  He likened the Kansas bill to the Jim Crow laws that allowed wide-spread discrimination against Blacks in this country.  If passed, both the Kansas and Arizona bills had potential to substantially discriminate against homosexuals, allowing people with “sincerely held religious beliefs” to refuse them everything from haircuts to hotel accommodations.  I agree with him that we should not allow such generalized discrimination.  However, I wrote to him and asked if he thought a Jewish baker should be forced to decorate and deliver a cake for the installation ceremony of some Imperial Kludd?  Should a Muslim caterer be forced to provide alcohol and pork for a National Hog Farmers convention?  Two of the most reported examples of religious freedom versus discrimination against homosexuals involved Christian bakery owners in Colorado and Arizona.  They didn’t want to supply wedding cakes for same sex weddings because it violated their sincerely held religious beliefs.  Mr. Pitts, Jr. never answered my questions.  I have to contemplate that if there are limits to the First Amendment rights to protect the minority, shouldn’t there be limits to the Fourteenth Amendment right to equal protection to protect those whose freedoms under the First Amendment are at risk?

                But it was something else in Mr. Pitts, Jr.’s article that jolted me (beside the fact that he placed quotation marks around the word “Christian”).  He likened the introduction of the Kansas legislation to “locking the garage door after the car has been stolen, the fence fixed after the cows have wandered off.  Consider:  The bulk of the country now supports gay rights.  Most young conservatives now support gay rights.  The federal courts now support gay rights.”  In other words, morality is determined by a consensus of the people living in a country, the majority of a particular sub-group of a political grouping, and the actions of a government body.  And, as he implies later, moral standards change over time and we must all do our best to keep up.  There is, apparently, no objective, immutable standard of morality.

                We are now, as Michael W. Smith puts it, “One nation over God.”  He no longer is recognized as the determiner of moral standards of behavior.  His book no longer holds the unchangeable truth that only he can delineate.  Acceptable or unacceptable behavior are no longer his to judge.  He is no longer the giver of “certain inalienable rights” as our founding documents indicate.  He has been replaced by the ego-centric individual, or by a collection of such individuals.  Without an objective standard of right and wrong, everyone is free to decide how to define morality.  And if enough people generally agree with each other, they have the right to force their morality on everyone else, even people outside their society.  Mr. Pitts, Jr. believes he has the right to condemn Russia and Uganda because those countries have policies that differ from his standard of morality.

                It’s a slippery slope we are descending.  The last time everyone did what was right in their own eyes, the great flood stopped them all.

A Break With Tradition: I Am Making a Resolution!

                I’ve never been one to get too excited about New Year’s Day and the accompanying celebrations.  It has always seemed like a very artificial demarcation to me.  If people want to lose weight, quit smoking, volunteer more or reduce their debt, they can determine to do so any day of the year.  From what I can gather, only about eight percent of those making resolutions actually keep them.  So, why bother?

                Well, I’m breaking with my own beliefs this year.  I am going to make a resolution.  If I were as smart as I think I am, I would make it as easy to keep as possible.  But, for me to make such a break with my own scruples, I would have to be compelled by something quite important to me, not just something easily fulfilled.

                A little background may be necessary at this point.  I have always been, but only recently discovered that I am an introvert.  I’ve been reading a book by Susan Cain, QUIET, the Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking.  She dispelled my long-held belief that an introvert is a quiet, wallflower, socially inept person who hates speaking to groups in public.  I am none of those.  However, I prefer small celebrations to large ones.  I am energized by throwing myself into a solo project that interests me.  I truly do not want anyone to see any of my projects until I’ve completed them.  I would rather express myself in writing than verbally.  I enjoy solitude.  I’m not a big risk-taker.  I tend to think before I speak.  I prefer letting phone calls go to voice mail rather than answering all of them.  All of those things make me more of an introvert than an extrovert.

                Ms. Cain correctly points out, however, quoting Carl Jung, “There is no such thing as a pure introvert or a pure extrovert.  Such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.”  I can, and often do, enjoy large parties, though they usually aren’t my first choice.  I can, and often enjoy, working on projects with other people.  I am quite capable and actually enjoy expressing myself verbally, even to groups, without any undo fear.  While solitude is a comfort, I need and enjoy being with others, just not all the time.  I have taken risks, and found them invigorating, though I have to overcome physical, emotional, and mental obstacles before engaging in risky behavior.  I don’t always think everything though before opening my mouth.  I will answer the phone if I know who is calling and I’m not otherwise engaged.  What I learned from Ms. Cain is that there are degrees of introversion and extroversion. 

                I have an additional factor that I hesitate to share, but since I know only about a dozen or so Facebook friends will even read this, I will take the risk.  I have a fragile ego.  This has been a fact my whole life, but I only admitted it to myself when I was well into my twenties.  As a child, I dealt with this low self-esteem problem by overcompensating.  I was loud and rude.  I tried to force my friendship on others.  When I did become friends with someone, I usually clung a little too tightly.  I have traced this insecurity to a specific incident in my life, one I will not share at this time, which I have never completely overcome.

                How does this look to others?  I am afraid many people misinterpret some of my statements.  For instance, when I tell others I am an introvert, they may not understand the definition I am using, and assume I would rather not spend any time with them at all.  Others may interpret the fact that I don’t easily mingle, meeting new people and reconnecting with old ones as a lack of desire to establish and nurture relationships, or even as an expression of an attitude of superiority.  The truth is I am afraid of being rejected, so I avoid that scenario when possible.

               Today, January 1, 2014, I will begin an attempt a change.  Not my basic being.  I am and always will be an introvert.  However, I am going to stop telling people I am one.  And I am going to forcibly push my fears aside and be more of a mingling person and relationship builder.  I could begin any day, but January 1^st just seems so right, doesn’t it?