Happy Birthday, B3x

Bex will be (or is already, depending on how long this takes to see the light) 17 and I find it distressing that spending time with me/us has become more a duty than a source of pleasure or enjoyment. A far cry from the 3-year old who introduced me at the pool as, “And this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Or the kid who took my hand as we explored together.

This, despite my obvious charm, wit, love, support, intelligence, all those qualities I’ve tried to mindfully manifest to become the grandpa I (think I) always wanted, not just for myself but for my own daughter. We don’t have a legacy of superior grandfather models in this family (not bad, mind you, just nothing particularly close or enviable).

 

And I channel the Martina McBride song, “At 17 she’s just like me so I don’t blame her.” I didn’t want to be around adults either at that age, and the lack of proximity (living in Belgium) made that an easier task. Also, not really “just like me.” Kids today have much more freedom of self-expression (a good thing, IMO) than we did 60 years ago, plus I was not even within shouting distance of Bex’s expression and sense of self (of which I now realize I had none). #clueless

 

It does help (some) that I know it’s nothing personal. Anecdote: “She was so mad she actually came out of her room!” The cause of that “mad” actually offers me hope because while we rarely converse, Bex, Nicci & I do the daily WORDLE and share our results via text every day we play (which, of course, is every day for me). In addition to that interaction, as limited as it is, I do get the occasional ❤️ reaction to a text I randomly send on topics (I actively curate my offerings) I hope Bex might find interesting, humorous, or entertaining. I even got one today for my “Happy Birthday Eve” text greeting. (Sent in the WORDLE group thread, to be sure she’d see it.)

 

So I’ve become the texting Grandpa and while that is not the fantasy relationship I envisioned and hoped for, it’s (going to have to be) enough for now, while they find their way and their own path to authenticity — another journey where Bex has a huge head start over me. 

 

Even though it may be years (if ever) before you see this, Happy 17th birthday, Bex. Know you are, have been, and will always be loved beyond measure, that I am astounded and proud of the person you’re becoming, that we will always be there for you. May that love, along with your parents’, be the safety net you (we all) need as you traverse the uncharted road ahead that is life.

Doubling Down on Denial

You might think, with good reason, that this is about our politicians (I cannot in good conscience call them political leaders), who seem to think that if you repeat the same denials and falsehoods with increasing frequency and at higher decibel levels, eventually the actual facts will fade away. Sadly, this too often seems to be working, just as it did with Adolf Hitler.
But not so, because this “strategy,” if you will, is not their exclusive province. Strategy might imply more deliberation than is true in most cases, but we’ll just stick with that word. 
We humans have a proclivity to try to shape the world to our desires. Reality be damned, facts be damned, history be damed, science be damned, we’re damn well going to believe what we want to fit the narrative of a world like we want it to be. 
It is why we keep giving those who let us down, or even abuse us, innumerable chances. How many undeserved “last chances” have some of us given addicts, abusers, or offspring? How many times do we base our decisions on hope, not performance. “Wait ’til next year” is not just a sports cliché.
Whether those “last chances” are based on love, fear, or hope doesn’t change the delusion that motivates our decisions and enables their behavior. Sadly, the beneficiaries of our denial probably aren’t any more “telling the truth this time” than they were the last time, even if both they – and we – want that to reflect reality.  

Why I Reject Conspiracy Theories

Conspiracy theories may be spreading faster than COVID-19, but I don’t buy them any more than I buy brussel sprouts. Maybe not for the reasons you might want to believe, however.

I view myself as a pragmatist. I don’t expect my words here to offer a blinding flash of (en)light(enment). I don’t expect to alter people’s beliefs or behaviors. Even when I do engage on social media, it’s generally to either ask a (pointed) question or to provide factual, or at least contraindicatory, research from a reliable source. My only real hope is to plant a seed that might grow into a “What if I’m wrong?” tree (or shrub). While I don’t expect many of my seeds to actually germinate, I am, at least so far, willing to keep sewing them, even as my patience wanes.

No, the main reason I don’t believe in conspiracy theories is because, if those theories are true, then what’s the point? Of much of anything.

If there really is some dark state cabal manipulating the levers of government, our pathetic little posts will have no impact. We don’t have near enough power, even if our followers are legion. Our (well, your) mini armory is no match for any forces of evil. If there is some secret cell in charge of the economy, we’re powerless against it. We’re nothing more than an expendable pawn in a 3-D chess match, and we started playing on move 42. 

You can watch Fox News or MSNBC for the rest of your life, but if there are forces at work in the shadows, they’re well-entrenched, well-funded, well-orchestrated, and inextricably woven into the fabric of our world. You’re toast, we’re all toast. 

Therefore, I refuse to believe in conspiracy theories — because if those of you who DO believe in them are correct, both you and I have zero real control over our lives, and the decisions we are permitted to make cannot, will not be allowed to, change the big picture. I’m left with where to go for dinner and what to order (when that becomes possible again). Which is the same place you are, except you can’t even enjoy that dinner, because you’re too worried about the conspiracies manipulating your world and your life — while futilely waiting for your social media memes to move the needle. 

Of what value is a life without meaning? If my life is to have any meaning, I need to believe that what I do matters, that the decisions I make matter, and not just for me. 

Decades ago I had visions of changing the world; I even accumulated a certain level of power in my small corner of that world. When I realized my pinch of power amounted to, at best, a scrap of thread in the grand tapestry of life, I refocused, desiring to change ever decreasing acreage (for the better, of course, was my hope). Eventually I realized that only those whom I could touch directly could benefit from what I brought to the party. (#mixedmetaphors!)

Which brings me to today, with my family . I will do everything in my power to make their lives better, to protect them however I can. If, along the way, I can make things better for others in my life, I’m happy and more than willing to contribute to and model living a life where that can happen.

If I’m wrong and there really are conspiratorial forces of darkness in control of our lives, then what’s the point? Because none of what I do matters. I cannot, will not, live my life like that. I’d rather be delusional than powerless.

Oh, and if you celebrate the conspiracist who mirrors your world view but dismiss inconvenient whistleblower revelations, it may be you who’s delusional.

Best Thanksgiving Ever

Yes, this is late and it’s now closer to Christmas than my favorite holiday, but I may have had my best Thanksgiving, if not ever, at least in a long while. 

What made this one special was a long conversation with my granddaughter, Bex (aka Rebecca, Becca). She’s 12. Not that we used to have long, philosophical talks or anything, but since her Dad now works from home (good for him, the family, just all around good) our (joyful) grandparenting duties have diminished. And she’s 12. She is, as is normal and healthy, establishing her independence and autonomy and doesn’t need us like she used to. That, too, is good, good for her, good for her family, just all around good.

Well, maybe not as good for me because I’ve missed her, I’ve missed the closeness of the relationship we developed in her earlier years. True anecdote: One day, when she was 3 or 4 and we were down in Florida on our annual vacation, I was in the pool with her (tough duty). Another child her age came down the steps and I heard, “Hi, I’m Becca, and this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Best.Day.Ever.

Understand, I am not complaining. She’s growing up like she’s supposed to. She’s a smart, funny, talented, creative, kind young woman, as self-aware and self-confident as you have any right to expect from any 12 year old. I know I can be proud and sort of sad at the same time and it’s all okay. But I’ve missed her.

Our Thanksgiving table was less crowded this year, a smaller group, and I wandered back to my office where she had retreated for some alone time. Alone time is important for almost everyone, but especially in our family. Anyway, I sat down and we talked for at least a half hour. That’s a long time. Did I mention she’s 12? 

I asked her about her Diabetes (T1D). Is it a big deal to her? Apparently not. Her 3-year “Diaversary” is coming up; does she think about it? Not really. It would seem I’ve made more of a deal about the disease than she does. My small acts to raise awareness are seemingly more important to me than her. She doesn’t need me to get a T1D “Hope” Tattoo. Not that she minds, but I need to recognize that occasionally painting my fingernails in T1D’s blue & grey isn’t really about her, at least not her personally. 
For her the disease is just a fact of life, an undesirable one, to be sure, but just one part of her day-to-day existence that she has accepted and incorporated. She doesn’t need a reminder or to have her awareness raised; it’s just her life. I still bought her a t-shirt anyway.

Middle School pretty much sucks, pretty much for everyone. No sane adult would ever repeat adolescence. And hers sucks way less than most; she’s protected and most of her classmates have been together for getting close to 10 years now. I have never seen a group of kids who “play together” better than this crew. They are seldom if ever intentionally mean to anyone and are almost always at least kind and considerate to each other.

Still, as we talked, a few tears were shed. (I’ve always seemed to have the ability to generate tears from adolescent females. It’s a gift.) Unintentional hurts still hurt, even when you know the hurt was unintentional. Even with a group of peers that you know like and respect you, there can be a feeling of loneliness. That’s normal, that’s okay, but it’s still adolescence and it still sucks.

I even started to walk away once when I felt I’d spent as much time as she wanted, but, instead, she re-jumped the conversation and I got bonus time, like reaching a certain score on a video game. (Okay, Boomer, I admit I was going to say, “pinball game.”) I tried to listen more than I talked (not always a great strength for me), but promised her that if she ever needed to talk without me making noise in response, I could do that. She laughed. Still, I shared that I had my own Rules o’ Life on my blog and mentioned one or two to her.

When I got a text the next day asking for the link, while it didn’t match the pool story, it did warm my soul. It will not be easy for me, but I will resist the urge to follow up unless she broaches the subject. Just asking is enough. Just asking Grandma to take her shopping after school is enough. 

I told her she had made this The.Best.Thanksgiving.Ever. She’s 12. We hugged, long and hard, and my heart was full.

No Discounts on Happy Meals

I have a list of rules I’ve developed over my meandering life journey. Rule #1, however, serves as the linchpin: “You don’t get a discount on the Happy Meal just because you’re not.” But it took me a while to reach that milestone marker.

As I’ve been revisiting the “lost letters” from my past, I’ve been forced to reconsider my original assessment that those first years of college (at Hamilton) were spectacularly unsuccessful. In traditional terms, of course, that is completely accurate (earning about one year’s worth of credit for my two years of residence). What I’ve garnered, however, is that I did set (whether unconsciously or subconsciously), and achieve, an important goal. Apparently I was determined to be unhappy and, not surprisingly, found multiple opportunities to focus on and achieve that end.

I’d like to tell you that this was just delayed youthful angst (it’s an understatement to say that I was not particularly mature), but thinking back I also remember, this time as an alleged adult, waking up, in the middle of the night  to write dark, brooding, and (probably) bad poetry. While I still have those documents of despondency, I choose to let them live where they belong, unvisited, in the darkness of a folder.

My quest for unhappiness had familial roots. In this alley between Mothers and Fathers Days, let me state that my parents did the best they could, given the family situations they came from. I don’t think DFS even existed then, and I can’t say for sure if either would have qualified for a visit, even by the standards of today. I think it’s telling, however, that my father once told me, “Happiness is over-rated.” 

I eventually came to realize that I, and I alone, am in charge of my own happiness. Finding that happiness also involved becoming my own, authentic self. That was, and still is to an extent, definitely a process, a journey, helped along by a supportive wife and loving daughter (and her family), plus a big helping of what were often dismissively (with a large dollop of snark) described as “pop-psychology” books. (The common theme of those books? Until you like/accept your (authentic) self, happiness will be elusive, at best.)

While this path to happiness has taken a while, with occasional potholes and roadblocks, I can report that now I can always respond to the ubiquitous greeting, “Have a nice day!” with, “Why not? No extra charge, right?” That usually generates smiles in both directions.

Have a nice day!

Genesis of a Libtard

Unlike Lady GaGa, I wasn’t born this way. I was a disaffected Republican long before I became what I am today, a disaffected Democrat. What follows is obviously incomplete, despite its length. My apologies because the point probably gets made well before the piece more stops than ends; perhaps this will eventually become a chapter in my autobiographical memoir.

Although my (moderately) conservative/Republican roots run deep, I am the outlier in my family. My father probably never voted for a Democrat in his life. In his later years at Friendship Village, he was a regular at meetings of the Concerned Conservative Citizens (aka Cranky Old White Boys Club). My brothers probably tilt farther right than I do left. But my final paper in my senior year of high school (1966) was an earnest assessment of the Republican Party and who in it could best return the country to their leadership. The first group I tried to join at the prep-school dominated Hamilton (named for Alex while he was still alive – old ivy on those walls) College was the Young Republicans.

So how did a white bread suburban boy (from the originally solid Republican Webster Groves) end up inhabiting the left side of the political spectrum? Because I reject simple and simplistic explanations and solutions, you may not be surprised to learn that I believe there are multiple reasons for my evolution and leftward shift.

• Child of the ‘60s: Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam, Bob Dylan. Conservatives who now control the Republican Party have been consistent opponents to the expansion of civil rights for minorities and women since the ‘60s; Nixon’s “southern strategy” politically solidified that stance. Karl Rove put it in concrete with rebar reinforcements.

• First Job: Orderly on the men’s ward of old St. Luke’s on Delmar, lots of black patients and co-workers. Spare time reading the St. Louis American. God forbid I actually do any of the assigned reading required by UM-St. Louis!

• Marriage to an intelligent woman (met and worked with at the aforementioned St. Luke’s); father to an intelligent daughter, who has since given birth to an intelligent granddaughter. The goals of the women’s movement were/are obviously important – and personal. (My mother was born too soon and frustrated by the limited roles available to her. That added to the movement’s appeal.)

• Public school teacher in a district that served a population that did not share many of the advantages of their more affluent neighbors, including those in schools I had attended (Webster Groves and Ladue). This changed me on at least three different levels.

      ° I found myself almost immediately thrust into the nascent teacher union movement. Let’s just say that conservatives were not supportive of teachers having any power to advocate for themselves or their students. That being said, it was not always a Republican/Democrat dichotomy, and I voted for several Republican state representatives and state senators. Union endorsements tilted Blue, but were not exclusive by any means, at least not at first. In fact, as I set out in 1976 to find a candidate to support for state representative, Republicans were my first choice because the WG then was reliably Republican and I wanted to back a winner; WG, too, has shifted away from the new Republican Party; those denizens who remain are often derisively referred to as RINOs. As union power grew within the Democrat party, the Republican party countered by moving the right and becoming even less friendly, sometimes seemingly antagonistic, to the concerns of public education and educators (where it remains), as well as unions and workers in general.

      ° The word “underprivileged” rubs many of my formers the wrong way; one reason may be that “privilege” has taken on a different, more politically charged, meaning in the modern lexicon. Maybe they perceive the term as some kind of condescension that discounts what they’ve accomplished in life. Perhaps a preferable term is “disadvantaged.” Those students didn’t understand (and some still don’t, it seems to me) how badly the system is rigged, stacked against them. That many manage to beat the rigged game and still overcome those disadvantages speaks loudly to their resilience, but does not negate the existence of those obstacles they had to conquer to do so.

      ° While it is not a job requirement, per se, most teachers, or at least most of the best I know, are empathetic; we know that no one is solely responsible for either success or failure. Most of us have no trouble with the expression, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” Empathy has become a dirty word to modern day Republicans; and Trumpists, well, that’s a rant for another day, leading to....

• A growing belief that just because something is not MY problem does not keep it from being A problem. I find the left more accommodating of that POV than the right. In my dotage I have greatly narrowed the focus of the problems on which I concentrate, but that does NOT mean I can’t recognize the importance of the oh so many others faced by my fellow citizens. I have used the analogy before, but conservatives’ version of a social safety net is a leftover rope and the admonition to “Pull yourself up.” While liberals seemingly want to solve every problem, no matter how few people it affects, often devising overly complex (and often ineffective) systems that validate the Law of Unintended Consequences, they at least generally recognize that complex problems require more than simplistic solutions.

Finally, or at least my final point, is conservative resistance to the concept that health care is, or should be, a right of all citizens, and not limited by jobs or economic status. I have a daughter and granddaughter afflicted, through no fault of their own, with auto-immune diseases that could block them from affordable access to the health care system without the current protections for those with pre-existing conditions that conservatives want to strip from current law, so this is obviously extremely personal.

As the parties themselves become increasingly tribal, polar and partisan, I am disaffected, and often disgusted, by both. That’s my story and so here I stand, with clowns to left of me and jokers to the right; I certainly lean left now, but really see myself as stuck in the middle (hopefully with you).

Disclaimer: This deliberately provocative title to grab attention does NOT constitute permission to aim such an offensive insult at any other person or group; that would include me.

How I Became a One-Issue Voter

Single issue voters always bothered me, always made me wonder, “How can you exclude everything save for that one issue (that often does not even affect you or your family directly or personally), whether it’s abortion, or guns, or the environment?” Please note, there are one-issue voters on both poles of all those issues.

However, I fear that I have become a one-issue voter myself, because I confess that a politician will NEVER get my vote if (s)he threatens affordable access to health care for people who have pre-existing conditions. And, no, (I am looking at you, Josh Hawley and Ann Wagner) saying you’ll fix it after you take it away doesn’t count. I would point out that Republicans (and it is generally Republicans who are (or at least were until the issue became toxic) threatening to take away affordable coverage for those pre-existing conditions) controlled the Congress and Presidency for 6 straight years during Bush-45 and barely even gave lip-service to the issue, much less took action.

For me this issue is personal. I have a daughter and granddaughter with auto-immune diseases. They deserve access to affordable health care. Everybody does. So any politician who threatens their access will never get my vote. And if you tell me it’s not important (because you don’t have to deal with it – yet), then you are my political enemy.

And if you, or someone you love or care about, doesn’t have a pre-existing condition, you can be thankful and then add the word, “yet.” Because, and especially if insurance companies get to decide what constitutes a pre-exisiting condition, it is almost inevitable that this issue will touch you. Yes, you may have a job with health benefits now, but how confident are you that that will be true in a year, or five, or ten…. Or will you be afraid to change jobs, take a promotion, for fear that your precious (and it is, indeed, precious) health insurance that covers now or future health challenges might change? Who can afford to wait for MediCare (which does cover those pre-exisiting conditions)?

A caring society cares for the health of all its citizens. Access to affordable health care is a right (to life).