Called to Bunt

Competition

2011-09-25T06:17:00.003-10:00

Competition brings out the best in me. This was affirmed earlier this week while working out on the static bike in preparation for an Ironman that I have signed up for next May. As I began to peddle at my usual 90 rpm’s, I noticed a man doing the same next to me. We started peddling in sequence coincidentally. As our workout got more intense, I began to wonder how good of shape I was in and challenged myself to go faster. Every few minutes I would sneak a glimpse at the man’s screen until it was obvious what I was trying to do. I’d look at his heart rate, speed, rpm’s and distance in order to ensure that he wasn’t beating me in any of those categories. It didn’t bother me that he may have felt like “prey,” for I knew that deep down he probably enjoyed the pace and the added benefit of having a stranger pushing him. When he sprinted, I sprinted. There was no need to declare “fight’s on,” we knew what was happening. There we were, two in shape athletes, albeit strangers, competing for the satisfaction of being better than the other.

I am a big advocate of competition. When two equally able parties engage in it, more often than not it will bring the best out of them. There is a time a place for it though. Not everything in my world revolves around being stronger or better. There are some in this world who believe in the mantra “sink or swim.” They know only two columns “winning or losing.”
Life is not a competition. It is a journey that can be especially hard on those who do not enter it equipped with the right education, socioeconomic background or strong bonds of a family as support. In short, life is not fair. And so making various components such as school, jobs and diplomacy into a zero sum game, creates a class of haves and have-nots.

I’ve competed my entire life. I know when to turn it on and turn it off. I am thankful that I have an instinct about me that enables me to rise to the occasion and accept the challenge. I am equally thankful that I have been blessed to been able to compete in the arenas that I have. I make no illusions that I have done this on my own. I’ve had a lot of help along the way. If you were true to yourself, you’d realize that you probably have too.

In May I plan on completing an Ironman. That is a 2.5 miles swim, 112 mile bike followed by a 26.2 mile marathon. I’ll be competing against a field of some of the top athletes in the world. I don’t plan to place, all I want to do is hang my head up high and walk away with my dignity. I’m sure I’ll find myself peddling alongside another athlete on the course and kick it into overdrive. But I won’t do it for the thought of a medal, I’ll do it for myself. Because at the end of the day, that’s whose opinion will matter the most.

All the Right Reasons

2011-02-19T15:38:00.008-10:00

Growing up in a middle-class community and therefore a relatively stable economic environment, the pursuit of money was never on my mind. I had the luxury of not having to worry about money, not because my family had so much of it but because it was never a priority that I learned to value. More important to my family were individual goals set apart from monetary gain that would mean something beyond worldly possessions. Money was not something to be obtained for pleasure purposes but rather to be earned as a mandatory requirement to take care of ones family.

My ambitions eclipsed petty desires for fancy boats, mansions or extravagant gifts. My parents instilled in me a sense of self-pride but also an obligation to enable others and to share my talents with the world for the better. As I looked at colleges, never did the idea of "career salary" even come up in discussion. It was never a determining factor for my choice of a major nor did it register in my mind as to what vocation I would choose. Rather, my parents told me that they would allow me to go to any school in the country and study anything that made me happy. This set the foundation for why I joined the military. It wasn't for prestige or to fulfill a lifelong dream of some kind. It wasn't even to check some box off from my bucket list. The reasons were simple. I served because I wanted to represent my country in the noble profession of arms and defend my country with my God-give talent. The rest (so I hoped) would take care of itself.

Looking back nearly six years from when I started this journey of my life where I have given my country some of my "best years," I often wonder why I am still serving. Is it for the same reasons? Like most 19 year olds I was naive and wide-eyed. I believed that the world was at the palm of my hands and that my influence was a lot greater than I would find out down the road. I no longer see my reasons for staying matching my reasons for joining. It has become less about the mission, the sense of duty and patriotism than it has been about money. Now, I regularly check my mutual funds, Roth IRA, direct deposits and am more meticulous about what items I claim on my travel vouchers then I did when I was a 2nd Lieutenant and never even checked my banking account. Is my service more about collecting a pay check? I'm still where I am mostly because of the service commitment that I incurred upon graduation from graduate school which the AF helped fund. Aside from that, my list for staying has been getting increasingly smaller. I often think that the most selfless act I could make would be to step aside and allow the next generation carry on the mission. I'm also staying because unlike the infamous theatrical banner on the aircraft carrier which President Bush landed on, I don't believe the mission is accomplished. Instead, I know there is unfinished "business" and I would like to be part of ensuring our Nation gets closer to closing out our commitments abroad.

It doesn't take a sociologist to determine that humans surround themselves with like-minded people. Take a look at your friends and acquaintances and you will find that many of them hold similar values, beliefs and philosophies. My friends are much the same. Like me, many of my friends have chosen a profession of service because they feel the need to give back. Unlike me, many of them are some of the smartest and bravest individuals on the planet. Take for instance my friend Will Taylor who I had gone to Intel officer school with. Several years ago he cross-commissioned and is now an Army infantry officer in charge of a platoon. A few months ago he got back from a 15 month deployment to Iraq with his platoon where he was their commanding officer. He probably could have sat behind a desk like me and chair-flew his way through a prosperous AF career. Instead, he chose to get shot at, kick down doors and capture and kill our enemies. He did all of this while turning down a promotion which he rightfully earned. Will was up for a promotion to Captain but if he took the promotion, he would not have been able to lead a platoon (typically a Lieutenant's position). Rather than become a company commander farther removed from the mission, he decided to keep his LT bars so that he could serve out his deployment with the men he had trained with. To Will, the military is definitely NOT about the money. In Will's decision, he probably lost out on thousands of tax-free dollars. But rather then worry about what he could gain from the "government," he chose a path that would be better for the "country."

Next is my friend Luke Hansen who after a year deployment to Iraq under Gen Petreaus' team, decided to move on with his life and seek out civilian opportunities. Today, he is both a full-time defense contractor utilizing his top notch analytical skills and a graduate student at the University of Maryland studying sustainable energy engineering. When I asked him how he was paying for Graduate School he replied "out of pocket." I quickly informed him that he was "entitled" to the post 9/11 GI Bill, by which he retorted "I feel like I didn't really earn it after only serving 4 extra months after my obligation. Technically I did, but it just seems like an excessive benefit." 99% of ordinary Americans wouldn't allow a little thing like "principles" to stand in their way of government benefits as they are the first in line to take entitlement programs like "unemployment." For those who have seen REAL sacrifice and who know their role in it like Luke, they serve as a reminder by which all of us should aspire. For Luke, it's not about the immediate self-gratification of the government paying for his education. It's probably more about being able to look at the "MAN IN THE GLASS."

My father has made it a point never to refer to himself as a Veteran, although by today's standards, he certainly could. When his service in the Reserves is ever brought up in conjunction with that word, you can feel the uneasiness and sense of embarrassment that he has about it. In that regard, he is much like the thousands of humble war Veterans who quietly go on about their day without ever mentioning their service. My father has chosen instead to recognize those among him who have served overseas and have faced danger as the "real Vets."

I am sometimes surrounded by people in the military who exaggerate their service to this country. They would have you look at the rack of ribbons on their chest as a proclamation of what kind of war hero they were. To those outside of the military, these "smoke and mirrors" would make them indistinguishable from someone who really sacrificed. Many of the real heroes don't wear uniforms any more nor do I imagine would they care about such trivial matters as decorations.

I often tell the people who work for me that whatever reason they are in the AF, let it be "your reason, not someone else's." If it's to get an education and use the GI Bill, so be it. If it's to travel and see the world, then take as many assignments abroad as possible. For myself, I sometimes feel that I have overstayed my welcome. I owe a lot to the AF and this country. The longer I stay in, the more I feel like I owe them. If I do choose to continue down the military path, my only wish for myself is that the decision was made in order to get back to that 2nd Lieutenant's worldview who cared more about his country than his bank account. If I could remember that, then I'd be doing this for "all the right reasons."

Back to the Future

2011-02-14T16:23:00.003-10:00

I ran 6 miles today after a long layoff from running. Mile 2 felt like mile 26.2. My cramps, heavy breathing, and aching knees constricted me in such a way that I wondered if I would truly get back into stride with my old form. Throughout the run I was keenly aware of the time I had been away from the road and the reality that while I'm only 28, perhaps my best running was behind me. Like my stride, I lost track of my pace and how long it took me to run a trail I had completed 30 times previously. The psychological effects of not knowing if I'd be able to finish started to drain my spirits. Just as I began with the long list of regrets I had about running, my stride came back. I had a bounce in my step to go along with a release of pain from my knees and a cramp in my side. I cruised around a bend on the way back that I dreaded on the initial push and began to feel the rush of endorphins going through my body. At last, the run was beginning to feel refreshing. I was outside enjoying the 70 degree weather with the knowledge that with enough repitition I could run the way I had always been able to.

Earlier in the day I started my SF-86 which for those not in the military is a security clearance reinvestigation form. For this renewal, I had to go back 10 years for all of my contacts who had known me back "then." As I looked at my previous SF-86 that I had filled out year prior, I began to wonder what happened to all of my old friends who I had felt worthy enough to put as contacts back then, but had no idea about their whereabouts now. Just like running, I suppose they will creep back into my life sooner or later. My 10 year high school reunion will be around Thanksgiving of this year. Although I'll be in Afghanistan, my thoughts will be in Laconia, NH. It's an odd feeling looking back and trying to reclaim the parts of oneself that were so poignant in one's memory. Yet, there is a satisfaction in knowing that those memories are always right there with us, even when we're huffing and puffing along a dirt filled road or huddled around a campfire telling stories with close friends. The next 10 years isn't that far away. Come to think of it, neither is the next 26.2.

Knowledge is Power

2011-02-03T15:42:00.004-10:00

I'm often asked "how do you know so much?" My answer is simple; I read. Whether it's required reading for work or me just trying to keep up to speed and make sense of the latest in politics, economics or sports. For the most part, none of what I read is for "leisure." Rather, I'm always reading current events, and other non-fiction material which will allow me to formulate educated opinions and keep me in touch with reality.

I can't say that I always enjoy reading, because more than anything, what I enjoy most is simply knowing more than the person next to me. Truth be told, I have a peculiar sense of satisfaction in knowing about the world around me because I like to feel like I'm "in the know!" From my daily paper, my weekly magazine subscriptions, my kindle or library collection I am always learning (I've been out of school for a month now). In fact, even when I'm not reading, I'm listening. My radio is always tuned to NPR.

In my library I have a collection of books that I am truly proud of. And even though my fiance disapproves, I keep them in our house as a badge of honor, a reminder of the information that I have retained throughout the years and a sense of security that this information is within reach.

At the end of the college semester when my classmates were in line trying to get 30% returns on their books from the bookstore, I was holding onto mine because I never knew when I might need a textbook on Ancient Greece or Human Biology. It might sound vain that I brag about being well read, but in a world where I am surrounded by people who are not, I am extraordinary. I am constantly baffled at how millions of people can go through their lives being so ill informed when information is literally at our finger tips. Instead of reading, people speculate, spread a web of misinformation that is then acted upon by equally ignorant people who take what's told to them as truth.

As I mentioned, I shouldn't be unique. The fact that I read a lot actual has very little bearing on my intelligence. All of my subscriptions are even available online for free! This is why I am so appalled at policymakers like Michelle Bachmann and Sarah Palin who go on air to talk about history and issues and it's abundantly clear that neither of them have a clue about what they're talking about. To someone who HAS read the Constitution and knows about our history, hearing these two clowns talk is insulting. I believe in the power of the 1st Amendment and the freedom of speech. But that doesn't mean that you need to be heard.

We all grew up with the notion that knowledge = power. Through my job I have found that no other maxim could hold more true. Each day I continue to read and learn more about my surroundings. I hope I'm wrong about everyone else. I hope I come to find out one day that they too care about what happens in their communities, country and world. For now, I'll settle for those who are just reading this blog. If you're reading this, then maybe I'm wrong afterall.

Stand Up

2010-12-26T16:54:00.008-10:00

Christmas shopping has become the epitome of American indulgence. Each year millions of families go out and spend money that they hadn’t saved up in the months prior only to put those purchases on a credit card to be paid at a later time. Instead of scaling down due to the economic downturn, my observation this Christmas was anything but recession spending. Rather, I saw hundreds of shoppers willing to dish out the cash for a Holiday that they seemed to believe in. Throughout this annual Christian tradition that has evolved to symbolize consumerism over anything Holy, I was blessed to have had my faith restored in something a lot bigger than myself.

Earlier this week on my way home from work I decided to do my own last minute shopping at Wal-Mart. Often throughout my daily routines I sometimes forget what I’m wearing or what I represent as I attempt to blend back into civil society after a day at work. On this particular day I walked into Wal-Mart in my uniform to grab a few stocking stuffers that I had forgotten about. While I was busy racing through the aisles to find my presents thinking that I was like the rest of the Holiday shoppers, it took a gray haired greeter at Wal-Mart to remind me who I was.

Upon checking out, I headed for the exit only to see one of the elderly greeters get up from his seated position. Slowly he rose up, pinned his left arm while standing at attention and offered me the sharpest salute I’ve received in a long time. Crusty veterans like the Wal-Mart greeter on that day always catch me off guard. And although it wasn’t the first (nor will it be the last) time that a Veteran has saluted me in uniform, the unexpected nature of receiving a salute at Wal-Mart that led to my embarrassment. I put my head down, awkwardly returned the favor and briskly walked out the exit to my car.

The act of rising to ones feet in honor of another is practiced in many organizations and institutions throughout the country. One of my first observations of this tradition was at Mass. Prior to the Priest reading a passage from the gospel; out of reverence the congregation stands as he walks to the lectern. During weddings, the guests stand as the song “here comes the bride” plays and the bride enters. When a high-ranking senior officer walks into a room, an order for service members to be at “attention” is called. After someone is bestowed a highly coveted award or after someone makes a powerful speech, a standing ovation often occurs. And in the court room when a judge enters, the order “all rise,” is commanded.

The thought of peers, fellow citizens or distinguished men and women rising to their feet is a humbling one. This past month I learned that my father was appointed to the bench and from here on out would be referred to as “his honor.” From now on, when he walks into a courtroom to deliver justice, the members will rise.

Recently many Americans have lost faith in the political system, their government and those who represent them, (me included). And yet, with all of the uncertainty about our future, I have never lost faith in the one man whose character seems to embody everything that is right in this world, my father. My father has the most integrity that I have ever known, and for that alone, I can proudly rise up. With that said, I know men like my father and men like the Wal-Mart greeter, will forever have pride in their country. They are the men who have made it what it is and in spite of the political flavor of the month, they will never lose faith in the United States of America.

After I got home I began to reflect on the old man who out of respect for my rank and uniform and out of pride in his country, saluted me. Men like him have a great appreciation for what freedom is like. They lived through much greater economic recessions, depressions nonetheless, and can perhaps appreciate the shopping activity at Wal-Mart even if they look chaotic. They have seen wars and seen their friends not come home. They have raised children, paid their taxes, paid their dues. They are a generation that is slowly fading away before my generation’s very eyes, and as much as they recognize us, we tend not to recognize them. My uniform is something I take pride in, but probably not as much as past Veterans.

This Holiday season I have been confused about my life’s direction. I always have wondered what I’ll do next and what I should be doing. When I got home from shopping I had my future on my mind. To my amusement I opened up a piece of chocolate and inside the wrapper was a message that read, “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.”

Thankfully, I realized that from an old Veteran greeter at Wal-Mart, who for me was “exactly where he was supposed to be.”

Like every Christmas, I find myself incredibly fortunate to have the material items that I have and the close friends and family around me. This Christmas I am particularly blessed to realize my dream of seeing my father realize his. I am blessed because of the country I live in and the people who have come before me to keep it that way.

Time is of the Essence

2010-09-29T13:04:00.006-10:00

In the 1960's over 80% of 25-34 yr olds were married. Today, that number is less than half. Our society has conditioned itself to believe that things like careers are the measurements to the "good life." Work has become the single most motivator that drives what we do, where we move and what we believe in. As a result we spend less of our time on trying to finding love. Millions of people sacrifice their time and energy to a vocation only to neglect the relationships around them. Instead of finding happiness in the moment and enjoying what we have now, we look past what is right in front of us and the opportunities we have today. Foresight and vision are great, but when those dreams disallow taking advantage of the present, they are useless.

A person will never take a stronger vow then when they echo the words "'Til death do us part." And yet, instead of seeking that individual for which that vow will one day be intended or nurturing the ones that we love, we get caught up in the rat race which is not life but work. To me finding the right person deserves as much attention if not more than finding the right job. If life is about finding love and happiness, how many of us can truly say that we're on the right path?

The average person works at a job for less than 10 years. If they're lucky and have the security, they may work 20 years before seeking retirement. Once that is over though, there is no telling what is in store for us, except for the man or woman who stood by us while we pursued other endeavors. The cliche is that life is short. Indeed it is. That is why I have chosen to take advantage of every opportunity to be with the ones that I love.

Much of my life has been directed towards going after "something," and not "someone." I've spent an inordinate amount of time taking care of everything except myself. Recently I decided that I would go out and find the person I was meant to be with. It took time and energy but now that I've found what I've been looking for, there's no chance that I'm going to give it up and go back to my old ways. Sure I'm still going to be ambitious and set goals for myself, but not if they interfere with what makes me the most happy. My priorities in life have shifted from caring about frivolous things to caring about the things that mean the most to me.

Like most people, my time is valuable and perhaps it is the greatest gift that I can offer. To the people that I love I know that what touches them more is not the car that I drive or the house that I live in, but the moments that I can share with them. Every second, every minute, every hour of the day matters. Why not spend it with the people you love?

Bucket List

2010-04-29T13:50:00.012-10:00

One of the things that I wanted to see while up here in Alaska was the Aurora Borealis (northern lights). With only a few more days left I'm starting to see that opportunity slowly fade away. Although I can happily say that as a consolation, I've seen my fair share of Bullwinkles around, I can't help but think of the thing that will have escaped me. For whatever reason, it seems that when I want something it usually ends up happening which sometimes reminds me of the cliche "be careful what you wish for." I've skydived, swam with sharks, surfed, rode horses, ran marathons, done triathlons, furthered my education, fallen in love, seen things that were purely majestic, competed in sports, done some good, gotten in mischief and still understand that there is much that I'd like to do. So much so that I've created a list of things that I'd like to do and see in my lifetime.

Visit:
See the Aurora Borealis
Go on an African Safari
Visit Machu Picchu
Climb Kilimanjaro
Backpack Europe
Qualify for the Boston Marathon
Climb the pyramids of Egypt
Ski powder filled trails in Whistler
Visit the Coliseum in Italy
Sail around the caribbean in a sailboat
Cruise down the Venice Canals in Italy
Go to Rio for Carnival
Visit the Galapagos Islands
Raft through the Grand Canyon
Run with the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain
Walk along the Great Wall of China
Canoe through the Amazon
Visit the Vatican
Travel to Baghdad or Kabul one day (not on orders)

Do:
Write a book
Run for local office
Go to Law School
Fly the F-15E (Complete)
Meet a sitting President
Watch Brycen's first Little League game
Finish an Ironman
Own a small business
Start a non-profit organization
SCUBA dive the Great barrier reef
Write a song and record it
Win my Fantasy Football League
Get Court side seats to a Celtics game
Be an extra in a film
Be on a game show
Break a world record
Visit an orphanage in Korea
Become a black belt in martial arts
Go up in a Hot Air Balloon
Kiss a supermodel
Give a large sum of money to charity anonymously
Give a commencement address
Live in a monastery under the rule of Benedict for at least one week
Catch a pass from an All-Pro NFL quarterback
Teach a college class

Personal:
See my Nephews and Niece graduate college
Coach a player and then one day see him/her on TV
Be a husband and a father
Be a grandfather
Become someone that my children will always look up to
Do something that would make my parents truly proud
Watch a court room rise when my father walks in (Complete)
Campaign for someone I truly believe in
Fight to end poverty in the US
Make a difference in someone's life
Do something amazing for my parents to thank them for everything
Be at peace with myself and God

To be continued...

Rush

2010-03-27T11:06:00.004-10:00

What Can I say? I'm in a hurry. So much so that I forgot to put my girlfriend's car in gear as I parked it in my driveway. As a result I came to find it across the street in my neighbors front yard, with the front bumper lodged between both sides of a gutter slope (this happened Wednesday night by the way). Anxious and still needing to get going I tried everything that I could minus disassembling the front bumper to get it loose so that I could get back on the road and towards my destination.

My generation is notorious for this type of on-the-go, "my way or the highway", scatter brained mentality. We go from our flat screen TVs, to laptops at home (often simultaneously) to our cell phones and ipods on the road. We do this seamlessly without even thinking about what we might have missed because of our obsession and reliance on technology. Because we want things instantly (instant rice, instant replay, instant messenger, instant loans/credit, instant downloads), we have forgotten the virtue of patience that our parents attempted to instill in us.

I don't know if I can live without my blackberry, but I know that I don't need everything right away. I can wait, start up a conversation with a stranger and act like a human being who speaks English and not just text lingo.

On the news I have heard a lot about the discontent of certain talking heads concerning health care reform. Before it has even been given a chance, the impatience of some lawmakers is to "repeal and replace." Seriously? When have we become so impatient that we refuse to see the first week of a new law, let alone see it through to the end. I don't know what Christian values these reportedly "Christian lawmakers" are choosing to utilize in their arguments, what I do know is that those 32 million uninsured Americans have had their prayers answered and that is one of the few types of instant gratifications that I can get on board with.

I suppose House Democrats were probably getting impatient with trying to pass a policy which our President ran on. But perhaps not more so than the struggling father of four children who lost his job a year ago and is battling cancer. It's been over 60 years since the US has made this appeal and it has finally gone through. It was a long road that had a political, economic and for me a very personal cost.

As I ran down a rural North Carolina road this afternoon with my iPod playing, I thought about some of the homes that I was passing and how many of them would now not have to worry as much about the availability, affordability or ethical implications of their health care. As I looked to the horizon, I patiently took my strides back home. I looked down at my iPod with an inspired peace of mind and I thought,"there's no App for that!"

Politics of Fear

2010-02-10T18:21:00.004-10:00

Recently, there has been heated debate concerning the fate of suspected terrorists. With Guantanamo Bay closing down and the question of where these alleged criminals ought to be tried, the politics of fear have once again surfaced and captivated an audience of Americans with short term memories.

During the Bush Administration 190 terrorists were prosecuted in what are called “Article Three” courts. All of them were convicted and now reside in maximum security prisons. Still, there are those out that lack faith in the fundamentals of our judicial system and the law enforcement officials who protect our citizenry. Furthermore, they would have us believe that American principles can take a back seat to convenience and demagoguery. During a convention with Republican “Tea Party” activists, former Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin drew rousing applause by her audience after declaring “We need a Commander in Chief, not a Professor of Law.”

When dealing with the decision to try a person in a court of law (military or civilian) it seems to me that the law ought to take precedence and that it ought to dictate our actions. Although, I suppose if one were not familiar with the tenets of our Laws than this would be a rather convenient thing to dismiss.

The assumption by the pundits is that a military court would be vastly different than a civilian one. This is not the case. The presumption of innocence, burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt and due process are legal rights that are shared by all courts in our Judicial system. Furthermore, we ought to send a message to those who despise our country by affording them the very rights and freedoms that they wish to kill us for. We ought to hold ourselves to a higher standard and the rule of law so that justice prevails.

Umar Farouk Abdulmatuallab, affectionately known as the “Christmas Day/Underpants Bomber,” has further fueled this debate. Republicans were outraged when they discovered that he was read his Miranda Rights since he was being interrogated by the FBI. Instead, they would prefer their harsh interrogations which they advocate.

The United States cannot live in fear. We need to try terrorists like Khalid Shaikh Mohammed (mastermind of 9/11) in the very city that he tried to destroy. I suspect New Yorkers and families of the 2,750 people killed on 9/11 would gain a sense of closure when this man who is given all of his civil liberties in accordance with the principles that he despises is tried and convicted. This is the message we can send to the world: America is not afraid.

Caught in the Rain

2010-01-17T18:10:00.003-10:00

4:30pm: I left my house for a late afternoon jog around my neighborhood. Earlier in the day I had been cooped up in my house because of the rain. I patiently waited for the rain to stop and for the the sun to break through the clouds. When it did, I took off expecting to go on an hour long jog.

I rarely have an idea of where I am going or which route I’m going to run when I go running. Part of the adventure for me, is the unknown of what I’m going to see or what I might encounter. While I always have a destination in mind and know where I’m going to end up, I don’t always know the exact path I’m going to take from point A to point B. Sometimes in new areas I even challenge myself to get lost so that I can get a better work out in. I guess you could say that my running style is more Forrest Gump-like than that of a trained Marathoner.

4:45pm: I can see the sun slowly setting in the west through the ominous clouds. I’m unfamiliar with the North Carolina roads that I’m traveling but hope that I’m heading in a direction that goes back to my house. As cars zip past me, I pick up my pace so that I’m back before sunset and whatever precipitation that may be looming.

The independence, solitude and adventure I get from running is a very American concept to me. I truly enjoy setting out on my feet to unexplored areas and getting to places based on where my legs take me. As a matter of self-reliance, I don’t back down from the elements. Rain, snow, wind and cold are factors that I try to plan for but in the end I persevere through whatever nature throws at me.

5:00pm: I can feel the drops of rain as I head towards the dark matter ahead of me. In the back of my mind I think I can outlast so I speed up hoping to take a corner around the bend that will lead me to a road back home. As I check for a time hack I see that I’ve only been gone for 30 minutes and become worried of what I’ve gotten myself into. At this point I can’t explain the adrenaline that has come over me all I know is that the feeling that I get from the unknown is a rush like no other.

Running is a very simple and mindless activity. For me it’s a matter of lacing up my shoes and turning my Ipod to play before I start. Although I never enjoyed the activity growing up, it now brings me great relief from my day to day routine and gives me an outlet to clear my mind.

5:35pm: The sky opens up and releases a flurry of raindrops and wind. I run for several hundred more meters before I’m forced to stop and ponder my next move. The rain is coming down so strong that I’m immobilized as it feels like thousands of tiny pebbles piercing my skin when I’m on the move. Several vehicles pass me along the side of the road and I think how nice it’d be for someone to pick me up. Ahead in the distance I see a mini-van do a three point turn. It’s headlights get brighter as it slowly returns back to my direction. I approach the window knowing that the gentleman inside is going to offer me a ride and I suck up my pride and accept. I think to myself “I’m saved.”

As I entered the vehicle sort of sheepishly, I extended my gratitude to the driver who had the good conscience to stop and pick up a stranger. Drenched and embarrassed, I continued to say “thank you” as we headed back towards my house. Accepting the ride is very contrary to any any runner’s principles who believe that they have enough drive to make it back on their own. This circumstance was different, I had never been in such a predicament and I wondered how I got myself in that position to begin with. I then realized, sometimes certain things happen to people along their journey that one can’t predict and a small country in the Caribbean came to mind.

Five days ago Haiti was rocked by an earthquake that registered 7.0 on the richter scale. Some experts predict that the body count which is above 50,000 now could escalate to over 200,000 when all is said and done. I doubt anyone could have predicted such a natural disaster just as I couldn’t have predicted getting caught in the down pour that left me isolated on the side of an unfamiliar road. Yet, with the help of a stranger who had the decency to pull over on the side of the road, I was back home and in a warm shower in 10 minutes. Haiti needs such a driver to take a small break from their daily activities and reach out to help. It is as American to set out on your own on a path less traveled as it is American to lend a hand to people in need. The two are not mutually exclusive.

After the fifth time that I had thanked the man who picked me up, he replied “I think it’s just a natural human reaction to put yourself in someone else’s shoes in these circumstances.” What he said was not a pre-planned talking point or a response to a question that I had asked him. His reply was a heart-felt belief that he had an obligation to help out his fellow man.

I believe someone was looking over me today and because of that I am happily at home typing away in a warm and safe home and not stranded by the side of some road in rural North Carolina. As Americans we too can be that beacon of light and hope for the Haitian people as they struggle to piece together whatever it is that they had prior to the disaster. We can do this not because it’s politically or economically beneficial but because it’s the right thing to do and because we may never know when we too are caught in the rain.

52

2010-01-01T18:01:00.009-10:00

The checklist has become a familiar habit of mine in recent months. Prior to beginning a new task, I write it down on either an event planner, my blackberry or a Post-It. The satisfaction of striking a line through one of the subjects on my list brings me great reward and a sense of accomplishment. Like a baseball manager setting a lineup, I rack and stack my agenda hoping to see it through completion.

Subconsciously I probably over due the items on my checklists purposely so that I can feel that I am progressing through my day, week and month. Looking back at 2009, I had a “to do list” for nearly every daily task. Grocery lists, homework, workouts, and just plain work. Once these checklists were complete I conveniently threw them away, out of sight and out of mind.

Upon thinking about my New Year’s resolution, I came to the conclusion that I would tie it to my newfound obsession with checklists. I thought about how most of my checklists had to do with subjects that mattered only to me and did very little to make a difference. My New Year’s resolution is more of a challenge than anything else. It will be a constant reminder to myself that there are always people out there that need help.

I have decided to do 52 good deeds this year. Each week I will seek out a new and innovative way to make an impact in someone else’s life and chronicle what I did to make it happen. The difference between this checklist and the traditional kind that I create, is that I don’t intend to throw this particular checklist away. In fact, I hope I can pass it on and encourage more people to do the same.

So far I already have a few ideas lined up. Starting next week I have my first youth basketball practice and a mentorship meeting at the YMCA. Fortunately for me, these don’t seem like chores to me. If anyone is benefitting from these activities, it’s me.

Each year seems to be more busy than the previous. I am amazed that with each month, I have more to do with less time. Filling up my schedule though is my choice and I don’t intend to use “being busy” as a crutch or excuse. With so much to do, I can’t wait to get started. I hope you’ll join me.

Follow my progress this year!

A Call to Action

2009-12-22T15:59:00.012-10:00

A man pulled up to his driveway after working a long day and sighed as he removed the keys from the ignition. Exhausted by the day to day routine, he reminisced, acknowledged his two jobs, fifty hour work week and wondered about what his efforts were leading towards. After some contemplation he stepped out of his truck and remarked “it’s the American way I guess.”

The American way is a phrase that has become cliche. Most everybody has used it at one point or another, but does anybody really know what it means? What is the American way? Is it working overtime in order to pay for the mortgage? Is it driving an SUV around town to soccer practice or the grocery store? Does it entail selling someone on a ponzi scheme to get rich or is it doing whatever it takes to scrape by and put food on the table?

The American way while ambiguous, seems less about taking care of each other and more so about taking care of ourselves. Citizens in every neighborhood across this country have lost sight of civic responsibility and President Kennedy’s plea to “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”

During the Vietnam War, there was a generation filled with those who fought and those who protested. There was an equal place for both hawk and dove as both represented a country that while divided, stood to support varying belief systems. Today, there are no such protesters who care enough to picket or oppose war. There are instead millions of Americans more concerned with shopping lists and stocking stuffers. The few chances these people have to make a difference, they overwhelmingly blow it off. How many times this Holiday season have you walked past the man standing out in the freezing cold ringing the salvation Army bell? What did he ask for, just some spare change right?

This year there was little discussion about how to defeat the Taliban and bring the US Soldier home. Any conversation that existed, didn’t leave the dinner tables or political debate podiums. No action was taken on the streets, few letters were mailed to our elected representatives and those that were mailed were most likely from family members who lost a loves one. Yet with little fanfare, the shift in direction from Iraq to Afghanistan happened before our very eyes and who knew it happened? Who knew that the President increased troop strength to 30,000 or that by August 31, 2010 he will have pulled out all combat troops from Iraq Completely? Who cares right? Christmas is just around the corner...not for our Soldiers.

For the American Soldier miles away from his or her hometown, December 25th will be another patrol through Helmand or Khandahar preventing the Taliban from gaining ground. It might be a holiday greeting card from a world away and a care package later. For the rest of us we’ll drink egg nog and see friends and family. We’ll go to church and sing Christmas Carol’s with verses like “peace on earth.”

Looking back at 2009, Americans weren’t interested that the wars overseas had gone seven years. For the 4th of July, we were enamored by the death of Michael Jackson. During thanksgiving we all talked about Tiger Woods. For Christmas why should we expect anyone to care about anything other than Bowl games and what’s under the Christmas tree? Why would anyone care about the troops overseas spending their holiday away from family? It wouldn’t be the “American way” that we have come to embrace and embody.

If I haven’t said it before, the war in Afghanistan is very, very personal to me. I hope one day that I can look back and say that I made some small sacrifice or contribution in making the world a better and safer place. I hope to one day look in the mirror and be proud that I stood for something. For now, I’ll have to settle for writing this blog with the hope that someone out there will hear this call to action. To those who read this, I urge you to take a stand for something that you believe in. I know 307 US service members in Afghanistan who did just that this year.

Faces in the Crowd

2009-11-09T16:23:00.008-10:00

Most people who meet my brother have little knowledge of where he has been or what he has seen. The fact that he was in the Air Force is probably an after thought to those know how great of a friend that he is to them. He doesn't look like one of those crusty Veterans that you may encounter on the street with their service careers summed up on a mesh baseball cap and stories worn on their sleeves. He goes about his day quietly without anyone ever knowing the Warrior that is within.

My brother is a Veteran of Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom. In those wars he spent holidays, birthdays and anniversaries away from his family and loved ones. When I was at basketball practice in elementary school learning the mechanics of a lay-up my brother was busy controlling the skies while coordinating an assault on Saddam. Years later, while safely studying in my dorm room, I'd get an email from him halfway around the world and the one thing he wanted to know was, "How are the Red Sox doing?"

For the people who walk past my brother on a daily basis, they may never know that he had 5,716 flying hours aboard the E-3 AWACS or that 1,000 of those were in Combat. Even if they did, they probably wouldn't know what that meant.

What that meant is that my brother was the "eye in the sky," that ensured air superiority for two decades. It meant that while we were celebrating New Year's or eating our Turkey dinner and watching football, he was watching over us (literally). As an Airman, I know exactly what my brother has done and what it meant to our National security. As someone who lives and works in the Air Force and has seen the mediocre more so than the extraordinary, I feel more than comfortable calling my brother a hero. If you understood the things that he has done, he'd be your hero too.

If you spoke with my brother he probably wouldn't tell you about all of his time in the sandbox. He wouldn't mention that he is qualified on the .50 cal or that he did a ground deployment with the Army looking for IEDs. He would even skip the stories of when his aircraft was painted by a MIG-25 while patrolling the skies. Furthermore, he won't tell you about the lives he saved or the medals he was awarded for his actions in combat. Instead, he'd probably ask how your day was going and carry on about his.

On 29 October 2009, MSgt Michael Carroll retired from active duty to a life away from the deployments and time away from home. To a Warrior, a Hero and most importantly my Brother, I salute him and thank him for everything that he has sacrificed.

This Veteran's Day we will walk past many homes with American flags displayed prominently in front yards. Some communities may hold parades w/ Veterans marching proudly down the street. In the crowd will be Veterans like my brother who won't be wearing a uniform and may appear to be just another face in the crowd. If you get the chance and recognize someone smiling a little more than those around them or standing a bit taller during the National Anthem, reach out and say "thanks," our lives wouldn't be the same without them.

A Dark History

2009-10-22T16:09:00.005-10:00

There is little that we ever really know about our founding fathers. This ignorance is by choice, since when we take away the blinders we are consumed by evidence of wrong doing that we would just assume not know. A look into our first and most important founding father, George Washington brings the man who is considered our greatest President to life. The great battles of the Revolutionary War, the Farewell Address all pale in comparison to the hypocrisy within the man that we allow ourselves to overlook. If we think about what we thought we knew about him, we find out that the best stories are just myths. The Cherry Tree? A story made up by one of his biographers. Wooden teeth? More like teeth taken from his animals, even slaves. We may never be satisfied or find a balance in what we thought we knew and what we actually do. There are too many stories untold and Washington may have just wanted to keep it that way.

Put any great leader under the microscope of scrutiny and flaws are bound to be revealed. Heroes would never live up to our standards if we did this to everyone of them. If we did, we'd just walk away disappointed. Historians have shown us repeatedly that with every great hero, there is a tragedy in all of them that cannot be ignored. As much as we'd like to see past these character deficiencies and see these great leaders as having an immortality about them, we come to find out that they like us are; all too human. For every great accomplishment that our Presidents have had, there has been a shadow that hangs over their glory. For every Declaration of Independence, Civil Rights legislation of economic boom there was a Sally Hemmings, Marilyn Monroe and Monica Lewinsky behind the scenes. This tradition isn't one from modern history. It starts with our first President whose life while noble and deserving of praise will be considered one filled with contradiction.

As I walked the grounds of Mt. Vernon on a beautiful fall afternoon with the Potomac set in the background and foliage lining the dirt paths, I couldn't help but notice the young school children walking past me. The fact that they were school children did not strike me since we can all learn a lot from Mt Vernon. The irony was that they were black school children, possibly descendants of slaves at some point and now were roaming free to honor a site that our Nation's first President called home.

At the time of his death George Washington had over 300 slaves working the five farms of his 8,000 acre plantation at Mt Vernon. The main mansion which was he inherited from his older step brother was Washington's most cherished possession. It should come as no surprise that he employed slaves. He was raised in an era when this was acceptable and many of the neighboring farmers were slave owners too. His happiness came from his property and his property was made possible by slave labor. These slaves, half of whom were women were given a ration of corn meal for their daily supplement and one working outfit and pair of shoes for the entire year. They worked six days a week from sun up to sun down. Meanwhile, at the top of the bowling green sat the Washington family as they wined and dined hundreds of guests annually. This was the man that is scattered throughout every history book about our country and whose name adorns hundreds of school buildings. For a leader and pioneer one would think he would have been above the fray.

Washington is a tragic figure in my opinion. He was revered so much that he was pulled out of retirement and voted unanimously as our first President. As General and hero of the revolutionary war, he was considered a National hero and rightfully so. Despite his influence he did nothing to stop the act of slavery. Historians can continue to debate whether a Civil War may have been prevented if Mr. Washington would have put an end to it. Instead, he quietly freed his slaves in his will but never saw what their freedom looked like. And so the contradiction of a man who fought for the freedom and liberty of Americans also owned human beings.

It's difficult for me to embrace Washington entirely. On the one hand, I see him as THE founder of our country who rallied 13 separate colonies and brought them together. On the other hand, I can't forgive how his conscience could accept slavery in the same way that I cannot forgive how FDR could imprison US citizens during WWII. These actions while justified through those who want to preserve their legacies cannot be softened by describing a bigger cause for which they served. The big issues were slavery and false imprisonment. Those are issues that thousands of Americans gave their lives for. Ask Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy or the 70,000 Americans who died in the Civil War.

Slaves enabled history to tell the story of Washington. They ran his farm, cooked his food, washed his laundry, entertained his guests and made Mt Vernon what it is today. Over 200 years later we see the tables have turned. As I looked at the young school children walking past me, perhaps unaware of the Mt Vernon that I saw, I wondered who told their ancestors stories? Were they buried somewhere on the property, scattered about without acknowledgement of their existence? They weren't in history books. I never recall reading a book from one of his servants.

It's 2009, we have a new President. He is African-American and holds a position that I don't know that Washington would have ever imagined a black man would hold one day. President Obama set out to change history for his own reasons and finally white people are writing his story down too.

There is much that connects Washington to myself. He died December 14th, 1799 a day before my birthday. The steamboat that my grandfather owned on Lake Winnipesauke was named after him. Despite a few coincidental similarities and the admiration I have for the President and General, I do not forgive the "Man" who for all I know freed his slaves in the end to protect his legacy.

Nobody goes to Mt Vernon to see slavery's awful history. They go to see Washington. People ought to reconsider though and look past the man who owned a well managed estate and remember the people who made it possible for it to exist and made it possible for this country to do so as well. I'll concede that we may not have been a country without Washington, there's little to dispute that. He was a great military officer who commanded men who were risking their lives for the cause of liberty. This liberty though was not for all Americans and we ought not fool ourselves into thinking so. Women, blacks, poor? Liberty wasn't for them. It was for people who looked more like George Washington and lived in places more like Mt Vernon than the slave quarters that surrounded him.

Before I left the compound, I walked past landscapers who were installing along the path by one of Washington's farms. As I looked to see what else they were doing, I noticed that half of the workers were Mexican.

Native Americans were at Mt. Vernon first. They hunted in the forests and navigated the Potomac for fish. We know this because archaeologist have uncovered numerous artifacts dating before Mt. Vernon was built. African Americans moved in next with Washington and ran the entire operation. Today I saw a handful of Mexican Americans (who were getting compensated) working the same land. The tradition of labor in our country is one marked by a legacy of diversity. Although Washington may have been the one crossing the Delaware and riding the horse up front, these men were the backbone. This along with who the real George Washington was, we should never forget.

Numbers

2009-10-12T18:21:00.006-10:00

58,195.

That number never really meant much to me until I went to visit “The Wall.” At 26, the wall has revitalized my patriotism and my sense of belonging to this country. It has a newer meaning filled with more importance and a greater impact on me than it did when I visited it tens years earlier. This time I walked past the wall, not on a mandatory field trip or an obligatory stop with my family, but as a service member who knows exactly what losing a friend to war feels like.

At 26 I have already lived longer than the average age of all those who died in Vietnam.. Their names are plentiful and chances are, many of us don’t know a thing about any of them. As I approached the first apex of the Memorial, I was overcome by emotion. First I was greeted at the dimly lit entrance way by a Vietnam Veteran who had served two tours there and who unselfishly acted as the unofficial gatekeeper. As he took several steps with me and passed on his knowledge, the only fact that stuck in my head was 58,195. With each step, I passed hundreds of names. I couldn’t even fathom how many there were. 58,195.

“When is this going to stop?” I kept asking myself. On paper 58,195 doesn’t seem incredibly high. Typing it on the keyboard requires 2 seconds of my time. The fact is that these men didn’t die on paper. They died on a real battlefield, they left real families behind and now they are forever etched in real granite. Their names live on at The Wall.

I made it a point to stop and stare at one name. Lawrence T. Borden. The name had never been significant to me before. Although to some family, this is a name brought up at the dinner table still. They honor him on Memorial Day, Veterans Day and all other holidays that remind them of him. I stopped and remembered his name because I didn’t know a single one of the 58,195 names that I had walked past. I thought I owed it to Mr. Borden and all of those who made the ultimate sacrifice to at least remember his. As I returned home I looked him up online. I found that he was SP4 Lawrence T. Borden, US Army from Charleston MA. He was killed on 13 Sep 1966 by hostile fire. For those who don’t know a single name on that wall...well now you do.

As I walked from monument to monument, I almost missed the Vietnam Memorial. Truth be told, it didn’t even cross my mind until a vendor recommended it to me. Even when I did look for it at night, I still almost missed it. The Memorial was dimly lit, there weren’t even whispers from the other tourists walking through. I didn’t dare take a picture of The Wall like I did the only Memorials. I didn’t feel right about making it about “my trip,” and the things “I saw.” Instead, I chose to write about how it made me feel and why those names are so worth remembering.

We have just closed in on the 8th year anniversary of the war in Afghanistan. Just like Vietnam, I have countless friends who don’t know a single name of someone who had died from that war. They carry on not because they are ignorant or naive, but because they are so able due to the sacrifice of so few. Her name is Roslyn Schulte. And now you know.

More Daisies

2009-09-11T18:12:00.011-10:00

Ever since I moved into my house I have found myself mowing the lawn every week, usually on the weekends. Where I once used to think about my evening plans on a Friday afternoon, this past month my mind has been more consumed with mulch, weed killer and what I can buy next at Lowe's. How quickly my priorities in life have changed.

As I look down my street, I see that my neighbors have also cut their grass. There we all are, perfectly trimmed and manicured homes in a row. In a small sense I feel more grown up as I see how I am fitting in around the neighborhood. It’s funny how personal responsibility tends to make us more anal about things.

When I was a kid I never had dreams of wanting to maintain a house, a career or anything of the sort. My ambitions were to do great things, set my own path and be original. Instead, I’ve caved in, sold out, drank too much of the kool-aid and have become one of “them.” And for what? Is it absolutely necessary that I maintain my yard week after week only to look at it from afar on ocassion from my kitchen window? It’s not like I’m out there running around, playing catch on it or anything. Like most things that we adults have...it’s for show.

I think back to the naive kid I once was and how complicated my grand ideas were. I try to retrace my steps to when I was 10, 14, 18 and I remember the passion I had for the things I loved. There are few interests outside of writing (such as this) that I continue to hold from childhood. Fast forward to today and I see how simple my mind works. I suppose, most of the things that I do are for selfish reasons. I want my carpet to be spotless, my truck filled with gas, my clothes pressed and my yard mowed. Is it worth anything in the end? Am I wasting precious moments of my life? Why Am I so worried and caught up in the minor details that society has deemed as necessary?

I don't hold the answer to those questions. Just as soon as I think I have made a turn in my life and that I am on track to do the right things, my past throws me a curveball and makes me step back and reevaluate what's most important. As I do that, I laugh at the man I see in the mirror now who views the world through a small scope and how everything affects "him," rather than how I can affect the world. As we grow older, I sometimes think we lose more than we gain.

If I had to do it all over again, I’d pick less grass and more daisies :)

If I had my life to live over again, I'd try to
make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would
limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this
trip. I know of very few things I would take
seriously. I would take more trips. I would climb
more mountains, swim more rivers and watch more
sunsets. I would do more walking and looking. I would
eat more ice-cream and less beans. I would have more
actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones. You see, I
am one of those people who lives prophylactically and
sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I've had my moments; and if I had to do it over
again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to
have nothing else. Just moments, one after another
instead of living so many years ahead each day. I
have been one of those people who never go anywhere
without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle,
a raincoat, aspirin and a parachute. If I had it to
do over again, I would go places, do things and
travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over, I would start
barefooted earlier in the spring and stay that way
later in the fall. I would play hookey more, I
wouldn't make much good grades except by accident. I
would ride on more merry-go-rounds. I'd pick more
daisies. -- Don Herald.

Saint Damien

2009-07-29T11:46:00.002-10:00

Untouchable

2009-07-23T12:45:00.016-10:00

He was once described as a “coarse, dirty man, headstrong and bigoted.”

Aside from being bigoted, this introduction is a fair description of what Father Damien was. Separated from the rest of society, Father Damien spent his best years with those stricken with leprosy. While being considered coarse and dirty is far from the holy attributes that one would expect from a soon to be canonized Saint, that is just what he is.

Father Damien asked to go to Kalawao in 1873 in order to serve and comfort the six hundred leprosy sufferers at the isolated settlement on the island of Molokai. Newly arrived, full of vigor and health, the young priest took to his duties without the slightest hesitation while caring for people who most refused to acknowledge. Isolated from the rest of the population, these lepers were sent to Kalawao not to live but to die.

What was so remarkable about Father Damien was not his extraordinary ability as a preacher, for his words were simple and to the point. Nor was it his plain and rugged carpentry skills that he used to build much of the infrastructure from churches to residences. The most remarkable aspect about this man was his heart.

Father Damien can be best summarized by one of his biographers, Gavin Dawes who remarked, “He was no savant, no sophisticate, after all: just an earnest peasant hard at work in his own way for God.” With very few personal belongings or possessions, Father Damien took to God’s work with mostly a tool belt, bible and the clothes on his back. He asked for nothing in return but for the help towards his mission and the dignity of the people he had served. Although he died a peasant and a leper, this year we honor him as our newest Saint.

Last month as I stood before the grave site which once housed his body, I shook my head in disbelief at how such a person with such a common upbringing could take on a task with complete disregard for his own health and welfare and do uncommon things for people who had written off by the rest of the world. Today, his works still have meaning and are a great reminder to us that we can reach out and help strangers, comfort those less fortunate without an individual purpose other than to do God’s work.

As a Hawaiian prayer was being sung in the background by a group that will be going to the Vatican this fall, I thought to myself "remember this Josh: FEEL THIS." At that moment, it was just where I needed to be. I couldn't think of a better example of self sacrifice than the grave site before me.

Like Saint Theresa, Father Damien lived with a kind of humility that makes me feel like the most selfish human being on the planet. He lived and worked each day caring for the sickest people in the world, with the knowledge that he would never leave that island. Indeed, Father Damien would not leave Kalawao. He died of the very disease that he had worked so hard to stop. When asked if he wanted to be cured he replied no and instead saw leprosy as only shortening his road to heaven.

Up close Father Damien was not the saintly figure that we read about growing up. He was tough, impatient and came across as demanding, uncompromising and rude to outsiders. It has been said that “saints look better at a distance.” Although there may be some truth behind that statement, Father Damien is one that you want to get see up close. He is a figure whose heart and soul you want to touch. He is a man whose story only gets better and more intense as you begin to peel back the layers and investigate the man who gave all of himself for strangers. In fact, the more you know about Father Damien the more of his spirit will begin to be revealed. He helped those that were deemed "untouchable," and through his extraordinary strength this is exactly how I think he ought to be remembered.

A Phone Call Away

2009-05-29T19:03:00.001-10:00

I debated whether to pick up the phone and call the people who were on my mind. I do that from time to time. I’ll pick up my phone, scroll through a list of names only to put it back down and resume my daily routines. This time was different though. As I came across her name in my phone, emotions poured out of me as I just stared at what once was. The feeling stayed with me for several minutes as reality sunk in. I couldn’t escape the emotions that consumed me as I struggled to move on to the next contact. Instead, I just stared at her name realizing that I would never have the opportunity to call that number again.

On May 20th, 2009 I lost a friend and comrade to an IED outside of Kabul Afghanistan. For the next several days I couldn’t shake the thought of her from my mind. Memorial Day brought new meaning this year and was another reminder of the connection that she will forever be associated with. Selfishly, I tried to think of every memory of her that I could as a way to remember how much she had meant to me and those around her. As I went through the rolodex of great memories, I could only dwell on the ones that I had missed. I thought about how I never sent her a care package or thought about her much while she was on her deployment. I thought about the times when I came up with excuses every time she had asked me to play tennis. I thought about our broken plans. I thought about the times when I scrolled past her name in my phone and never bothered to make that call. Indeed, the void memories that I didn’t have but “could have” had with her will haunt me for the rest of my life. I am overwhelmed by guilt and regret.

It’s amazing the simplicity of a phone call. Anyone can pick up a phone and touch a few buttons and in an instant get a hold of someone thousands of miles away. Today, we have resorted to less conventional and less personal methods such as email and the like. We pass up on the chance to talk to longtime friends thinking that they will always be there and that their number will never go away. Well…I’ve seen a number go away. Although her name and legacy will never escape my thoughts and prayers, I know I can never go back in time and make the calls that once seemed so easy to make. How ungrateful I was. How many times had I seen a number and blocked it? How many times had I allowed a call to go to voicemail and how many missed calls had I not returned?

How many calls had I not made?

I have a tendency to talk myself out of things. In fact, I’ve actually been quite adept at it. If I’m tired, I know exactly what cards to play to convince myself that I don’t have the energy to do something. When I’m scared about trying something new, I insert streams of my distorted logic to justify my fear. And when I’m thinking about calling back home to friends and family I’ll think more about the time difference and how busy the person on the other end is than about how much I’d really like to catch up.

And so the death of my friend has awakened me to a new appreciation for life. Instead of trying to get out of things, I’ve decided to take chances and simply say “yes,” when otherwise I would have said “no.” Next week my schedule is filled with plans that will encompass new adventures, perhaps some uncomfortable moments but nonetheless experiences that I wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t picked up my phone and reached out.

I picked up my phone today and called one of my best friends. As the phone rang I was nervous since I had not spoken to him in a while. With each ring I wondered if he’d pick up and for a moment, almost wished that it had just gone to voicemail. I was unsure what to say and thought of reasons for this impromptu and perhaps random phone call. I knew that by today’s standards calling a distant friend out of the blue just “because” is more unusual than it is common. After several rings, he picked up the phone and I heard his voice…I let out a sigh of relief. It didn’t seem to matter what we talked about, I was simply glad that I had not passed up on the moment. After almost not making that call, I can honestly say it was the best five minutes that I’ve spent all week. It didn’t take courage or wisdom. It just took a little bit of initiative and two people picking up their phones. I had almost lost sight of what is truly important in life.

I'm damn glad that I made that call today.

Amazing Grace

2009-04-07T21:39:00.020-10:00

As millions of people around the globe tuned in to witness the Presidential inauguration, many of them also watched with confusion as President Obama reached out his arm and instead of doing a traditional wave, stuck his pinky finger and thumb out to greet the crowd. Newscasters scrambled to figure out the meaning of this sign and what its purpose was. Meanwhile, Hawaiians back on the islands smiled as if the motion had been a secret handshake that nobody else was privy to. Deep down, Hawaiians understood the message that the President was sending; he was from Hawaii.

Ordinarily, the “shaka” is not a symbol that one gives much thought to. It merely means, aloha to those of us who reside in Hawaii. To the President, it too was probably unrehearsed but its impact on Hawaii could not have been better calculated. More than ever, the State of Hawaii felt a tremendous amount of pride as they saw a “local boy” reach the highest public office in the land. In a sense, many of them felt as though they too had made it.

The “shaka” moment should not over analyzed. It didn’t mean that he had won over those voters who disapproved of him back in Hawaii. It didn’t mean that he was going to appear at all public events in a showering of leis (which is customary) and it certainly didn’t mean that he was going to shape his policies around his home state. Essentially, what it represented was that he knew what the “shaka” meant and what it meant to the people of Hawaii. It was genuine and thoughtful and for that he deserves the gesture back.

In these uncertain economic times it’s unfortunate that other public officials and wall street executives haven’t followed suit in an attempt to reach out to the public. For many Americans this is a reminder of the gap between “us and them.” Someone responsible ought to show remorse, send out an olive branch and then find a way to relate with the way the rest of the country is living. Although there are some who are worse off than others, we are all in this mess together.

It seems obvious the sense of responsibility that needs to be displayed and yet none of these so-called leaders are taking that step. Americans know that there’s not a panacea for the ills of our economy but we do know more can be done that just throwing money at the problem. With all of the trillions of dollars that are being used to raise the deficit, Americans still walk away with the feeling of an empty stomach as if to say "here's your cash, now get out of my business."

This gap between what is logical and what is the "right thing to do" could be closed if we all saw each other as equals. Rather, we tend to believe that the amount of money someone holds in their bank account actually makes them more deserving of certain privileges or rights. We think, maybe their concerns and issues are a higher priority than those who work for minimum wage. This socially accepted practice of caring more about class and money has been the downfall of what was originally supposed to make America unique and prosperous to begin with...that is inalienable rights. Thus my proposal is for the big wigs with the big checkbooks to step out from behind their desks and to make a simple gesture...an apology. Sure, that's not going to revive someone's 401K, college fund or foreclosure, but it will show a little decency and is a step in the right direction.

Whether the President is traveling around the world and speaking with countries from Europe, Asia and the Middle East, or discussing policy on capital hill, he always finds a way to connect by reaching a common ground with those he speaks with. If wall street can take away anything from the President, it would be that a little “shaka” can go a long way. And if they choose to utilize such gestures, they need not be mere lip service. The act must be one of heartfelt consideration. Because after all, isn’t being considered all we want in the first place?

Talking Stories

2009-03-30T23:24:00.002-10:00

He looked out into the jagged lava field that now covers the sacred LekeLeke burial grounds and the place where his ancestors had fought and died in the battle of Kumo’o. His focused eyes gave off a sense of purpose as he began his prayer to the Hawaiian spirits. The words flowed majestically, demanding my attention. Upon finishing, he paused for a brief moment. In that moment, I stared at his profile and saw his head high, face stoic and chest ever so slightly pushed out. In that image, I saw a man’s entire heritage unfolding upon me like a snow fall blanketing a mountain. On that day, he allowed me to peak into the windows of the most cherished and revered ancient Hawaiian traditions as he revealed stories about where he had come from and who he was destined to become.

My journey to the Big Island with my friend John was not about sight seeing or trying to understand everything around me. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about John reconnecting his family to the island where he had grown up as he conducted family ceremonies that would one day be passed down to his children. To John and many Hawaiians who believe in the old ways, Ohana (family) is more than a common name, it is a way of a life. He and many of the traditional Hawaiians trace their genealogy back to several generations. It is in that lineage that they find the strength and wisdom in their daily lives. These ancestors are more than mere historical figures though, they are in fact the lifeline and driving force behind what one chooses to do or not to do.

I couldn’t help but attempt to draw comparisons between John’s family roots and my own. Each place we visited was a reminder that his family history was larger and more sacred than mine. It took several hours for me to accept that but eventually, I conceded that he had a stronger bond with his ancestors than I did with mine.

My friend John traces his genealogy back to King Kamehameha I. It’s a deep concept even for me to comprehend. And as much as I’d like to find records of my own, I know that they are in a distant land, attached to people that I do not know nor will ever relate to. And although cultural heritage is important to many families and in particular John’s, in my case it does not define who I am. I am not of the people whose genes or physical features I share. There are few lessons that they can teach me. The person that I am is the son of my parents; two people who make up the nucleus of my ancestry.

I have never been too close to any of my family members. I grew up as the youngest of four children which meant that my siblings were all grown up and out of the house shortly after I came along. Essentially, I grew up and perhaps was treated like an only child. To add to the family isolation, I have never been particularly close with any relative, save my oldest sister and grandfather. All things considered, I was raised solely by my parents. They were the guardian keepers who were responsible for my day to day interactions and they were the individuals who gave me opportunity. Between the two of them is where my loyalties rest and whom my life I owe.

My Mom and Dad never shared secret family recipes that had been passed down from generation to generation. Nor did they recite family prayers, mantras or epic stories. Instead, they showed me with their actions what being a responsible and compassionate person was all about. In that sense, they gave me a social heritage.

My social heritage started with my parents and has now been passed on to me. I have made no secret of my ambitions of returning back to my hometown in order to carry on their legacy of giving. It is a legacy that I am both comfortable with and proud of. I may not have ancient rituals, but I have the images of my parents sacrificing what they had for causes bigger than themselves. To me, my family name means more than what some individual who I had never met had done thousands of years before me. My family name is evident in the man that I see every time that I look into the mirror.

I do not have to consult a history book to draw lessons from my family's past, for I learned it all first hand from the people that matter most in my life. Whatever I do, I know it will have an impact on my life and whoever follows my footsteps. I must be the caretaker of this legacy so that everything that my parents worked for will not be forgotten. I am ready and prepared to step out and embrace what has been given to me. Since I have chosen to not re-connect with my past, I have instead decided on connecting with my family through the future. In those actions, I hope to make current and future generations proud of the path that I have chosen. Then when all is said and done, I intent to relax and of course “talk stories.”

Minority Report

2009-03-18T17:46:00.011-10:00

Below is an excerpt of a letter that I am going to be sending to the President of Merrimack College. If you would like to contribute to this plan of action than please email me at jojocarrollwr10@yahoo.com with your pledge. Thank you for stopping by, together we can make these dreams reality.

When I attended Merrimack (2001-2005), there was a nickname that my friends and I gave to one particular student who we would often pass either in the cafeteria or throughout campus. While this nickname may have appeared to be narrow and possibly offensive, it also summed up the campus stereotype quite well. The name that we called this individual from afar was “black kid who didn’t play sports.” While there were several other black students at the time that fit into this category, he was the most visible. For four years my black friends and I joked about this phenomenon as we tacitly accepted the fact that black students on the Merrimack campus were few and far between and that those who did exist, were recruited solely to play sports. Looking back, it seemed like a sad commentary coming from a school that advertised itself as an equal opportunity institution that embraced diversity. Through pamphlets and advertisements the student body would read how “diverse” Merrimack was, that we had “X” amount of students from an “X” amount of countries or states. When I looked around my football locker room this was certainly evident. However, when I walked outside of it, I stepped out into a campus that was 99% White.

The irony of the recruiting efforts to attract students around the globe was that down the road from our school were two cities where minorities were the most prevalent (over 50% in Lawrence and Lowell); I saw very little evidence that Merrimack had an interest in these students.

Please don’t get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed being a student at Merrimack. It was an opportunity for me learn and make some of my lifetime friends. Based on my experience there, I feel as though this is an opportunity that should be given to other minority students as well. As we quickly enter an era where Whites will no longer be the majority race in this country (most studies contend this will happen by 2050) shouldn’t the campus look something like the “real world?” Moreover, in order for Merrimack to be that microcosm of the changing American society, wouldn’t it behoove the institution to start actively recruiting minorities for reasons other than having them play sports?

My father tells a story about his Alma Mater (HC) back in the 60’s, where a young black man by the name of Orion Douglas (now a judge) was recruited to play basketball. He was 6’8 and looked the part. He was recommended by some Jesuits from the High School he attended in Georgia, however, Holy Cross had never seen him play. For the four years that he was there he struggled athletically and never made the team. He did however, make solid grades and became a friendly face around the campus. Upon receiving his degree he asked to meet with the President of the school, Rev. Swords. Douglas told the President that he realized that if not for the color of his skin and his perceived ability to shoot a basketball that he probably would not have had the opportunity to go to a school of higher learning like Holy Cross. He wanted to see to it that there were others who had the same opportunity as he did. Rev. Swords agreed with Douglas and promised him from that day on that if he could recruit and find qualified black students with competitive grades, that he would pay for their tuition. The following year, the first student of this initiative was Clarence Thomas.

It took the vision and courage of a man like Rev. Swords to bring minority students to Holy Cross. It wasn’t idle chatter that drove the process, but an active commitment to make the goal a reality. I think this same model can be emulated at Merrimack an equally selective institution which like Holy Cross has a reputation for high academic standards.

I am not suggesting a term known to many as “affirmative action.” I know that the political arguments against such a phrase can divide communities. What I do think is possible, is to set a “goal” (not a quota) for encouraging more minorities to attend Merrimack and by showing them that Merrimack is a safe and open minded environment to learn. On the heels of our nation electing our first African-American President, I think that this initiative is more than possible. It sends a message to alumni and future students that the College accepts embraces and cultivates the beauty of diversity in the academic culture and that such diversity propels us forward along with the world.

I am equally concerned that by this economic recession, fewer minorities will be given the opportunity to study at a prestigious school like Merrimack, not because of aptitude but because of finances. Now is the time that minority students without the financial support can easily be forgotten and all progress that has been made could be lost. I challenge the College to make the commitment and to follow the Christian and Augustinian tradition that is fundamentally rooted in the curriculum and social life at Merrimack. Diversity at Merrimack means extending beyond the basketball court and football fields. It means a classroom filled with people from different socioeconomic backgrounds, ethnicities and religions.

As a minority, I put this challenge on the table and am willing to start a scholarship to support this vision if the College will decide to match whatever funds that I can garner. As a proud alumnus who has contributed in the past I am willing to put my money where my mouth is. Together we CAN do better.

Respectfully,
Joshua J. Carroll
Class of 2005

The Family That We Keep

2009-02-27T02:22:00.002-10:00

We don’t get choose what family we are born into, we start our lives according to an enigmatic predestination that many attribute to God. This harsh reality for many is one that often makes winners and losers in the socioeconomic ladder before we even realize the glass ceiling above or below us.

The few that transcend the dichotomy that is birthplace or birthright are the ones that refuse to allow fate to determine their destiny. They are the individuals who have become dissatisfied with the status quo and unimpressed with the hands that they are dealt.

My best friend is one such person whose struggles were predetermined. I admired him ever since he told me his story about growing up on his own as a young teenager. Throughout the turmoil and obstacles, he overcame his situation and went on to graduate college and now is a successful businessman with a beautiful house, wife and newborn baby.

The first time I saw a picture of his son, my heart melted. It was a feeling that I couldn’t express with words as I kept going back to look at his picture again and again. I fell in love with him immediately as if he were family. Sure, I know legally “uncle,” is not a title that is recognized under the law and nor would anyone confuse us as relatives. Still, in my heart I have as much love for my best friend’s son as I have for my own nieces and nephews. The peculiar thing about it all is that I haven’t even met him yet.

I didn’t choose what family was going to adopt me. Like most things, I just lucked out as I look back at what I consider the biggest "break" of my life. To me, family cannot be defined by blood lines, legal documents or physical resemblance. It is based on the quality of relationships and the loyalty to those around us.

As a young adult, I have chosen those family members that I wish to be surrounded by and whom I reciprocate my love for. Not surprisingly, not all of them are in my family tree. Family is not a term that I use loosely. Considering someone a family member means that I embrace them and that they have embraced me back. Even though it appears harsh to disown a relative, I cannot in good conscience accept everyone with my last name as family. To do so is ingenious and an undermining of my definition of what family truly is.

My best friend is my brother. I don’t need to see it in writing to believe this truth. He has been there for the ups the downs and everything in between. His son begins the first chapter in his life on good footing because of the sacrifices of his father and it is because of the relationship that I have with his father, that I consider him family as well. One day I hope to tell him a little about his father’s past and the admiration that I have for him, so that he can be as thankful for having a father as I am for having a brother. All together family is about those who have your back when everyone else has turned theirs. It’s about loyalty, love and mutual respect. I can’t say for certain if my own family will expand, all I know is that the family that I have now is the family that I keep.

Our Black History

2009-02-12T05:12:00.004-10:00

I don’t know the exact time that I first saw the image of two black men with clenched fists upon a podium, but I absolutely remember the way it made me feel. Without knowing the circumstances, I knew precisely what their protest was about and why they used that platform as a mechanism to make their statement.

It wasn’t until later that I did some research and learned more about the 1968 Mexico City Olympics and the Olympians John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Few photographs are as meaningful and powerful as that of those two men at that moment. Few photographs evoke the emotions of discontent and freedom of expression and those that do are not nearly as memorable. The display was both justified and uncomfortable as they tip toed the line of what it means to be patriotic. And despite all of the controversy that followed to include protests and the stripping of their medals that single act taught me more of what it means to be American than anything else that I can recall.

February marks the seldom celebrated, black history month. Although Americans recognize it as such, I would argue few really know why we can continually learn from the African-American experience. Today in schools, students are taught the civil rights movement capped off with Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream speech,” as if that marked the end of the struggle. A minority of us truly know what being oppressed means and why the struggle for acceptance is a fight that continues.

I am a believer in “the dream,” not because I am American and not because I am Asian but because I am both. I believe we can live in a country that is tolerant enough to accept our distinct backgrounds and the unique history that we share. No notion embodies more of the core American principles of freedom and the desires of our ancestors than the vision that Dr. King embraced. The fact that it is called “black history month,” does not diminish the overarching theme that I believe it represents. Just because we celebrate the contributions of black Americans does not mean that I don’t have stake in it. Ask me how many times that I have been unfairly judged scrutinized or called names simply because of what I look like and then tell me if you think I can relate.

What is most exceptional about this month is not that it is the shortest of the year and ironically features President’s Day (the celebration of our founding fathers), but that it honors a specific group of individuals who have risen from slavery to the oval office of the White House. Along with these people, I would argue that Hispanics, Asians, women and other minorities be considered as well.

This month honors those historical figures that have persevered and sacrificed in order to keep a heritage intact, and yet it also should celebrate those among us who take the fight forward and advance the cause of equality. Those people are not just people like our President but reach farther. In order for us to expand this month and give it more meaning and more resemblance of the truly diverse heritage that we hold as Americans, we ought to embrace a wider range of people. For every Jackie Robinson there is a Roberto Clemente for every Rosa Parks there is a Sally Ride and for every Barack Obama there is a Daniel Inouye.

It is this last man that I believe best summarizes the point that I wish to make. Read Daniel Inouye’s biography and perhaps you too will see parallels and the black history that is within all of us: http://inouye.senate.gov/bio.html

Dreams From My Mother

2009-01-12T04:35:00.009-10:00

I try to imagine how scared that young mother must have been as she walked up to that orphanage in Seoul, South Korea more than two decades ago. I think about the social pressures, mental reservations, spiritual battles and personal conversations she must have had to endure. It’s beyond my comprehension as to how much courage, morality and vision it took before she bravely let go of all responsibility of her child. Ironically, even though she walked away in a sense it was probably the most responsible thing she could have done.

A lesser woman would have probably opted for a completely different path altogether but instead, this young mother left her baby at the doorsteps of strangers without the slightest notion of reward or compensation. She most likely left with the hope that this boy would grow up in a world more privileged and better suitable for the ambitions that she knew she could not provide. Just where did her strength and fortitude come from? I hope one day to find out.

Until recently when I heard Barack Obama’s “Dreams From My Father,” on CD, I hadn’t given much thought to my Korean background. I often shunned it and poked fun of how separated I was both geographically and culturally. For most of my life I had thought less about my ethnic heritage and more about the family that I inherited through my parents. Too many times I have failed to see a connection aside from physical traits that would have tied me back to the place where I was born. After all, what could such a place teach me anyways?

Obama’s story gave me a deep appreciation of my background. His story taught me that one can come from many different backgrounds and still have stake in each of those places that have shaped him or her. His lessons on race and inheritance brought me to believe that there is another side of my story out there that I ought not to avoid, but embrace openly.

Obama took off to Kenya shortly after his father’s death and before he enrolled into Harvard Law School. To him, there was something incomplete in his life. He knew that he could not continue to grow and move on without knowing his entire family story. He chose to go on a fact finding mission to find out just how everything came to be. He eventually came across the answers to some of his most pressing questions and came to appreciate the origins that he had never known. It was through this trip that he was able to find the deeper meaning to his heritage that went beyond simply the color of his skin.

I don’t know if I will ever have a similar experience by meeting the lady who gave me away. Right now that seems like such a large request. And so rather than thinking such grand ideas, I put things into manageable terms that seem more within reach. I’ll often ask myself how old she might be today or if she had other children. I picture her in my mind, although her face doesn’t come to my imagination and I wonder if she ever thinks about the choices that she made and in particular if she ever thinks about where I ended up and what had become of me. I know it’s vain of me to think that my life is at the forefront of those who brought me up in this world. If she thinks of me even a quarter as much as I’ve been thinking of her lately, then I know I owe it to her to find out just where I came from.

I could very well be moving to Korea next year as I put it on my list of assignments. I don’t know if I’ll ever end up walking up to her door and meeting distant relatives. I’m not even sure what I’d say to her if I did get that chance. I might have to settle for the small gains of trying the authentic food or learning about the history of Korea. Heck, I’ll start off by learning the language!

To say that I owe my birth mother a debt of gratitude is an understatement. In fact, I can no more disown her than I could my real mother. For both sacrificed enormously so that I could be where I am and who I am today and that is the beauty of mothers. For the good, responsible and kind hearted moms think about their children before themselves. I have two great examples of them in my life. If there was ever a person(s) that I owed more in this world aside from God, it would surely be them.

I often wonder what most people think when they see me for the first time. A Korean kid with an Irish last name who speaks with a slight New England accent. I know in many parts of the world, that doesn't even make much sense. Whatever it is that people think about when they first encounter me, I hope it is both a combination of the characteristics that I inherited from both sides of my past that are known and unknown to me. I hope I can continue to carry on my family name with pride and conviction while still respecting and representing the Korean ancestry that consumes me. I can no longer pretend to ignore my much distant past, it is time that I own up to what I am. Hopefully, others will not judge me or stove pipe me into a category based solely on what I look like or how I speak. Rather, we must all work to find that rich history that is within each and every one of us. Once that is revealed, we will begin to live with much more meaning and perspective.

I think we can all appreciate the type of person it must take to give their children up for adoption. There’s not a better example of “doing the right thing,” than that act. If we could all make such brave choices, then there’s no doubt that this world would embody that place that these mother's must have dreamed for their children.

Forty Years

2009-01-07T00:27:00.006-10:00

A lot has been been said about marriage; its virtues, relevance and sacredness. Through my parents I have learned that marriage is not the easiest bond to endure and along with the commitment comes disagreements or in my parent's case arguing and more arguing. And while there are millions of marriages that do not stand up to the vows that they were founded on, to my parents credit theirs is one that has been going on now, forty years strong. For everything that they are not...they are in fact still together and I am so proud of them for everything that they have accomplished. This video is of their trip to see me in Hawaii before Christmas and is a testament for all of those who believe in the ever lasting power of love.

Know Thyself

2009-01-04T19:27:00.008-10:00

I first heard this story during my freshman orientation in college. I often think about its meaning whenever I take a step back and look at the direction that my life is headed. While I'll readily admit that I have the mindset today more compatible with the tourist vice the fisherman, I hope that whatever adventure I embark on, I will end up knowing myself as well as the fisherman in this story...

MBA and the fisherman

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.

"Not very long," answered the Mexican.

"But then, why didn't you stay out longer and catch more?" asked the American.

The Mexican fisherman explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.

The American asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

"I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs...I have a full life."

The American interrupted, "I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat. With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City. From there you can direct your huge enterprise."

"How long would that take?" asked the Mexican.

"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years," replied the American.

"And after that?" "Afterwards?

That's when it gets really interesting," answered the American, laughing. "When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!" "Millions? Really? And after that?" "After that, you'll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife, and spend your evenings having a few drinks and enjoy your friends."

Coming of Age

2008-12-30T23:42:00.001-10:00

Three and a half years ago I saw her in that drive way tucked unassumingly in the shade underneath a sprawling maple tree. The first time I drove past I just took a glance as I inched slowly to inspect her. It was love at first sight and I knew I would be back. The second time I stopped and took her for a test drive. I knew just then I would return for a third and final time when I could drive away with the previous owners in my rear view mirror. The third time I did just that and not myself or my car had any idea of the adventure that we were to embark on.

I had looked for a car every weekend that summer. My father and I went to practically every dealership in the greater Lakes Region, before I finally made my choice. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for, although I knew that whatever car I bought, it had to match my ambition if nothing else.

The day I bought my used, black Audi A4 was a proud day for me. I handed over a $16,000 check to a man that I knew nothing about, other than that I wanted his car and that his records seemed meticulous enough to deem him trustworthy. It was a big commitment for me as big as anything I had signed my name for. I had never owned anything worth so much before. My previous car was a 1991 Saab Hatchback which while reliable had over 200,000 miles and was falling a part. I knew that whatever car that I bought I had to bring it with me to Texas across country and I couldn’t take the chance of it breaking down like the time I was stuck in the middle of a 4 lane tunnel on I-93 in Boston my senior year.

My Audi became an extension of me. I convinced myself that it was my reward for all of the work that I had put into getting my degree and commission and in a sense owning it made me feel as if I had made it in some small way. As I drove her off the lot that first time, my hands trembled as I felt the power of that mighty engine. For the rest of that summer I parked her far away from others when I made trips to the store, and inspected for scratches every time that I reentered. I took every precaution that I could. Before the rising gas prices I only put Supreme in. While in Texas she was professionally washed and detailed once a month, no questions asked. As the years past, so too did my treatment of her.

Almost four years later, I look back at the places my car and I have been. She has traveled across country and back again. Once adorned with the “Live Free or Die,” slogan, she now represents the “Aloha State.” While I still take her in every 3,000 miles to get an oil change or see to it that she is being serviced whenever something doesn’t seem right, I am no where near as scrupulous on car washes or interior detailing. Like me she has gotten older. Her paint no longer glimmers as brightly when the sun hits her. The scratches on the bumper are a result of my carelessness and the spilled liquid on the carpet happened without my knowledge. Since 2005, I have doubled the amount of miles on her from 35,000 to 70,000. The mechanics tell me that when I hit 100,000 we’ll have to replace the timing belt. I often wonder how many more years we’ll be together.

As the owner I almost feel guilty about the 52 mile commute that I put her through to get to work or that I bring her to Midas now instead of the Audi dealership to cut down on cost. It’s just that as the years have past and my car has gotten older so too have I. Together we have aged and each time I am about to open her door I have questions like; How many more miles do I have left on those tires, should I put more air in them? In a way, my car has made me think about my own life and how I too am growing older and am not the naïve teenager who once thought more about appearances than substance.

For me, growing older isn’t that drastic of a change. It might mean that I need a little more sleep if I want to stay out later or that I must stretch longer before working out. Most of all, it has given me an appreciation for everything in life that I never thought about before. Each experience that I have, I owe it to maturity. Aging does not upset me, rather it gives me the perspective that Earl Warren once had when he remarked, “never regret getting older, it is a privilege denied to so many.”

My car represents more than the lifestyle that I once wanted to portray to others who saw me driving around town. Now, it is a reminder of who I was back then; the optimistic college graduate who felt he knew everything. And now, heading into 2009 it takes on a different meaning. It’s no longer the flashy car that my friends once envied, as the newer models have out shined it. It is now just an ordinary car that has many miles and has been many places. As much as I would like a newer model, I wouldn’t trade the places I have been with her for anything.
This summer, I will embark on a new adventure as the Air Force is set to move me to another destination. I don’t know where I will be yet nor what I will see, but I know that wherever I go, my car will be ready to take me there.

Emails with Dad "Part II"

2008-11-07T00:58:00.004-10:00

"I AM CONTINUING TO PAY $1000 PER MONTH TO MERRIMACK WHICH IS $48,000 BY
THE END OF THIS LAST TWELVE MONTH PERIOD. WE NEED SOME BALANCE AND
UNDERSTANDING, I JUST DONT HAVE ANY MORE. AND I KNOW THAT YOU NEED SOME MONEY TO ENJOY YOUR COLLEGE EXPERIENCE. I REGRET AGREEING TO THE SUMMER EXPERIENCE. IT HAS CREATED A HUGE PROBLEM FINANCIALLY. I KNOW THAT YOU HAVE DONE TERRIFIC AND I WILL TRY TO SEND YOU SOME CASH. BUT FOR A WHILE IT NEEDS SOME TEMPERING.

SORRY TO HIT YOU WITH THIS.

I KNOW THAT YOU ARE DISCOURAGED WITH FOOTBALL. WE ARE PROUD THAT YOU HAVE STUCK IT OUT. THAT IS WHAT IS IMPORTANT AS WELL AS YOUR ACADEMIC PERFORMANCES WHILE ENGAGED IN FOOTBALL SAY NOTHING ABOUT ROTC. KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK.

TELL ME WHEN YOU ARE GETTING HOME AND I THINK THAT MRS. DOLLOFF'S SON
COULD USE YOU SHE SAID. TELL ME WHEN YOU WILL BE HERE AND I WILL TELL
HER."

I don’t know how my parents managed to pay for my college. I know that my academic and ROTC scholarships helped but they certainly did not pay for all four years. When I began applying to schools, no college was off limits. My father told me that price was not an issue and that if I liked a school, he’d find a way to pay for it. This was a far cry from how he went to college. He paid for his own way, working during the school year to support himself. The lone support that he got was a $7 check each week from my grandfather. He and my dad were self made men. I on the other hand am a product of their efforts.

One day my dad called up to see what I was doing. I answered on my cell phone and told him that I was golfing. He replied “Oh that must be nice (in a jokingly sarcastic voice) I just got out of work and now I’m going to teach so that we can make your tuition payment.” And that was my dad. He and my mom bent over backwards for me so that I could go to school and meanwhile I was off doing things like golfing!

There’s something about manual labor that my father has always loved. His desk job doesn’t give him nearly as much satisfaction as building a porch or working in the garden. It was through him that I began to appreciate labor jobs like construction and landscaping.

My first feeble attempt at construction was a tough adjustment. I learned really fast that a strong work ethic made up for lack of experience and skill. The lone piece of advice my dad gave me before I left that first day of summer employment was “whatever you do, don’t just sit around, always do something.” He should know, many on the crew I was going to be working with were guys that my dad had worked with when he was in construction. To this day he has often told me that those were his favorite times working any job. He loved building and working with his hands. He enjoyed being outside and making a hard earned but honest dollar. But for the lack of pay, he would have almost certainly stayed.

Being “Jim’s kid,” gave me instant credibility with some of the guys. Despite the fact that I was all of 140 pounds soaking wet, they all knew the reputation my dad had back when he was working with them. Immediately, I knew that I had to prove myself. My dad dropped me off that first day without waiting around. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry, I think he wanted me to find my own way.

“Do you have a license kid?” asked the foreman who identified me as the new kid from the brand new Wal-Mart boots I had on (non-steel toe mind you). “Yes sir,” I replied. “Ok, then take that truck right there, none of these bozos have licenses, we’re going to Durham.” And that was my orientation. In a matter of a morning I had grown up a little more. We started driving at 6am and no sooner after I pulled out of the company parking lot did two of my co-workers start chugging Budweisers in the back seat. I glanced at them in shock through the rear view as if I were in some bad nightmare. “Keep going kid, this is what these clowns do, your Dad knows how it is.”

Once we reached the site I listened attentively for my orders. In theory my job would be simple; take the 8 and 12 foot forms from the pile and drop them where the guys building the foundation asked for them. Once the concrete was poured in between the two slabs of steel, I was to help tear it down and start over again. The job sounded easy. I was looking forward to getting started.

I definitely underestimated the heat. By lunch time, I was dragging and the rest of the crew was going strong if not stronger. I don’t know if it was their super human strength or beer buzz but whatever they were doing, they were showing me up. Some of the guys who were well over forty, carried two at a time as if they were pillows, all the while puffing on a cigarrette. I couldn’t believe how hard these guys worked.

Each day felt like two or three combined. As I got to know the guys, I began to get a real appreciation for the people who executed the blue prints of everyday life. I wondered if those “white collared workers,” ever got to see the people that I had the great opportunity to work with. I knew my dad had been on the other side. When I came home from work he would ask me all about my day as if I had been to some paradise that he wasn’t able to go to. He had been there though and he recalled certain tasks as if he had just been out there with us. I think his time doing construction gave him a sense of ruggedness that is so lacking in men these days, but also a strong sense of self.

Work was tough but I could hack it. After a long day, I just wanted to take a shower and crawl into my bed. I couldn’t see how people made careers out of construction. I worked just short of a month before I opted for less strenuous summer employment. The decision was part of my choosing and part influence from my boss.

“Stay in school kid, you don’t want to be doing this for your entire life. Most of these knuckleheads like my nephew over there have never graduated high school and now look at them. Just stay in school, we don’t know anything else, this is all we know.” I remember that mini lecture so clearly as if it were a favorite on my Ipod played constantly. My boss had drawn a line between me and the rest of the crew and that line was education. He continued too, “Seriously kid go work at Shaw’s. You don’t need to be out here. They just built it and it’s inside! What don’t you kids get about working inside. If it’s hot…you’re inside! If it’s snowing…you’re inside. Christ, if it’s raining…” And like that I told my dad after some arguing that I was quitting and applying to the grocery store.

I was disappointed in myself that I gave up. And even though I was going somewhere, I still felt as if I had run away from something else. I look back at that summer in high school and wish that I had the mental toughness of my dad. There were two things that I was never allowed to do in sports. One was cry and the other quit. Granted this wasn’t the athletic field, I often applied his lessons to whatever I was doing.

The following year I vowed to prove to myself that I could handle doing manual labor for an entire summer. This time I would be working for a family friend’s landscaping company. I had known Jonathon for a long time and knew how much he looked up to my father. It was a no brainer that with that connection my foot was in the door. Like the year prior, my dad dropped me off at Jon’s shop but this time waited for Jon. “Hey, you don’t take it easy on him you hear? Make him earn every penny. And son you work hard for Jon.” He smiled the whole time as Jon gave a chuckle as he drove off. Still, he meant every word.

The several summers that I worked landscaping through college for both John and later for Kevin, were some of the best times I’ve ever had working. While my other friends were getting tan pulling lazy lifeguard duty on the beach or scooping ice cream, I was getting dirty and having a blast. I learned a little bit of everything and drove around in those trucks from site to site with my head up high. I enjoyed walking into the hardware store knowing the exact tools and orders that I needed. At times, I even felt bad for people like my dad who were stuck in an office all day.

John and Kevin came from hardworking families. My dad respected the hell out of both of them. He knew their dad’s really well and told me amazing stories of how hard they worked. I knew exactly what he was talking about. I became a firm believer that hard work was a code written into someone’s DNA and was passed on. I saw John and Kevin busting their tails just as my dad told me they would. Lately, I’ve come to a conclusion that they simply don’t make men like they used to. I used to write that phrase off as cliché but the more I think at how all three of those guys (John, Kevin and my dad included)working, the stronger I invest in that motto.

I’m no stranger to work. My dad started me at a young age while I was still in junior high. Each summer I had a job, sometimes two or more. Many of my jobs were different too. I was learning ‘what I didn’t want to do when I got older.‘ I worked at an arcade, construction, landscaping, grocery store, convenience store, sold kitchen supplies, prep cooked and everything in between. My dad always took my pay check and put it into a savings fund that only he could access. I never really thought too much of it. I just worked hard.

My Quarter-Life Crisis

2008-09-22T22:57:00.002-10:00

Geographically I live in the middle of no where. And occasionally my recognition of this fact reminds me of how I view my place in society. This isolated island in the vast expanse that is halfway between the free world and the third world is practically a microcosm for how I see myself as well; trapped.

Back in High School I recall writing where I thought I’d be in ten years, or what we called in our Yearbook, “Our Prophesy. “ Some of the students made light of the project and injected their comical spin to it. I on the other hand took it seriously and seven years later see that I am farther from those goals today than I was when I wrote them.

I Joshua Carroll will have graduated Law School, started my family and served God as well.

I remember those lines as if I had looked at my yearbook yesterday. Out of fairness to my younger self, I can no more pretend that I didn’t know what I wanted back in High School than I can say that I know where I’m headed now. To be honest, I haven’t a clue. One year from now my orders will be up and I haven’t given much thought to where I will be going or what I will be doing. I’ve put it off and procrastinated with the hope that everything will just work itself out in the end. And so far, I shouldn’t really complain.

I consider this dilemma as my quarter-life crisis. At twenty-five I never thought I’d be so restless to change my situation. I try to put into consideration some of the things that I’ve done and come to the conclusion that I haven’t done much at all. I have settled more than I have sought adventure. I’ve played it safe when I could have taken chances. I’ve stayed the same when I could have grown and I’ve taken credit for things that were beyond my control. All of these choices have contributed to my false sense of accomplishment and should rightly be scratched from my record. For I have lived a simple, easy, secure and privileged life. If it were not for my parents and the lucky breaks that I have received along the way, none of what I have would have been possible.

I regret not having to have faced adversity. I envy the people who have struggled for what they have just as I look up to the “self-made men.” I couldn’t be more of a polar opposite. I have been given the keys to the same doors that have locked out so many from the social conversation. Those that believe in a grand outcome that is all orchestrated by a higher power would call this “God’s plan.” If that is the case, then I’m certain that hundreds of millions of people in this world think that God’s plan sucks. How can I logically believe that I deserve what I have and that it is because it was God’s will, when more deserving, more devout followers struggle to put food on the table, die from diseases, war and natural disasters?

A big part of me wishes that I could just start over, not necessarily rewind back to 2001 but to just give up everything so that I could attempt to find out what the phrase “earning a living” really means. Until then I will continue to be thankful for what I have been given and the opportunities that are around me. I just hope that I’m not talking about these same problems at fifty.

Out of the Closet

2008-08-21T21:05:00.002-10:00

Most people are aware of the don’t ask don’t tell policy that pertains to homosexuals as implemented through the direction of then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell during the Clinton Administration. What they are unaware of is that this policy has also been applied de facto to Democrats whenever a political discussion arises among the ranks.

For three years now I have stood silent on politics, unwilling to express my personal views while on duty. Just as the gay men and women who have served by me, I have disguised myself so that I blend in with everyone around me. As a member of a very small minority of Democrats serving in the military, I have refused to give my opinions out of fear that I may be exposed as a traitor. With Democrats being so taboo, my affiliation with the party feels less like a badge of honor and more like a scarlet letter.

Since I have entered the service I have indeed felt out of place. I am often surrounded by more conservative Republicans then I would ordinarily share company with in my private time. Although I can attest to their patriotism and friendship, I can no more support their political views then I can turn my back on my own party. And for that reason I have decided to come out of the closet.

Being called a liberal doesn’t bother me. In the media us “liberals,” are portrayed as careless, financially irresponsible and obscene hippies who don’t want to protect our borders. Nothing could be further from the truth. In reality, I view a true liberal as someone who cares for people, things and beliefs above themselves and accepts a higher calling that extends beyond that of financial gain. And while I prefer the term “progressive” I’m more than willing to put myself out there and accept that label.

Now more then ever I know that I can no longer sit on the sidelines while my fellow service members attack the very beliefs and candidates that I support. Many people’s views are the way they are because very rarely do they ever hear or entertain a counter argument. It’s time for me to stop hiding my true colors (blue) and let everyone around me know that there’s no need to be ashamed of being an Obama supporter. Sure, he’s a left wing, liberal, minority Democrat…and then again, so am I.

A Mile in My Shoes

2008-07-30T23:06:00.003-10:00

“Momma always says there’s an awful lot you could tell about a person by their shoes. Where they’re going. Where they’ve been.“ This was the lesson taught to Forrest Gump by his Mother who wisely saw fit to parent through the use of metaphors such as her ever-popular “Box of chocolates .” In her shoe theory though, the suggestion need not be over analyzed. We can like the Forest Gump quote suggests tell a lot about people if we just look down every once and a while.

On any given day I am bound to put on several types of shoes. My combat boots for instance are a constant reminder of my obligations to my country and the gratitude that I have for the American taxpayers who provide for my healthy lifestyle. As soon as I get out of work though I throw on my running shoes and race around town on a sunset run. No longer do I stand out from the civilian population but instead zip past it as I stride towards my destination.

After a run, I’ll jump in the shower to give my feet a momentary break between footwear and then slip on some island-style flip flops to lounge around in. On the weekends I’ll wear sandals, go barefoot, put my athletic cleats to good use and even clean up with a nice pair of shoes for a dinner date.

The point is that there is a little piece of me in every one of those shoes that I put on and a slightly different persona that goes along with them. Now those who really know me can vouched for the fact that I have a tendency to exhibit split-personality like symptoms, although this is not what I’m getting at. Rather, just because one sees me wearing combat boots one day, should not necessarily assume that I might not be at a peace rally the next. Just as it is wrong to judge a book by its cover, it’s also just as erroneous to judge someone by the shoes on their feet. One might conclude a person’s hobby that way, but still may never know what else they might be into as well.

Allow me to explain a few of my shoes:

Those of you that have seen the competitive side of me have been privy to the Deion-like swagger that I maintain when I’m on the playing field. Along with my cleats comes a more confident, albeit borderline cocky jock with the trash talking to match. The two are inseparable, you just can’t have one without the other.

Call it the island fever, assimilation or the atmosphere, because when I have my flip flops on I take on the laid back, aloha attitude of the locals. While I’ll readily admit to wear a watch, I rarely check it when my flip flops are on, mostly because I know that when it’s time to go home, the sun will go down.

My demeanor gets a little more serious with my combat boots on. As I walk out the door and into my car, I am no longer the care-free civilian chilling on the beach, or ego driven jock. I am property of the US government, sent to serve the very people who have paid for everything that I own.

As I began writing this piece, I thought it’d be interesting to count how many shoes I own and to grasp their function. Unlike my girlfriend whose walk in closet houses four times my collection, her footwear while important has many redundant purposes…high heels come to mind.

My list.

Golf Shoes (Nike), Flip flops (Reef), shower sandals, dress shoes (military/civilian), club shoes (Diesel), Combat boots (tan/black), running shoes (Nikex2)Football cleats (Nike), Crocs (Payless), Tennis shoes (Adidas), utility shoes (Puma), basketball shoes (And 1) and even dancing shoes!

Fifteen shoes total, all with a different purpose, all of which cater to whatever mood or activity that I feel up to at the moment.

In a sense attempting to "walk a mile in my shoes," is a misnomer. Before I would invite anyone to that challenge, I'd have to browse through my collection and choose which pair for them to try on.

Fight or Flight

2008-07-28T21:51:00.003-10:00

It was 3:30 in the morning when a group of friends and I stood at a street corner after a night of drinking. Across the street from us were two hostile men shouting expletives at us for no apparent reason. After standing idle to just take in the one main word that they kept referring to us as, I prepared for the worst. I looked to my left and saw that two of the people in my group had gone forward, ignoring the fighting words that were being shouted from across the way. To my right was my friend (a former golden gloves boxer nonetheless) who had evidently received the same feeling in his gut.

What ensued was a slow motion like dream state that seemed hazy in retrospect. I dodged the first several haymakers and allowed my instincts and adrenaline to take down the man in front of me. In an instant he was on the ground while the other two vanished from my periphery.

My hand was pushed on his head as I shoved his skull into the sidewalk. I then took my knee and drove it into his back as to stabilize him so that I could collect my thoughts and plan my next move. For the next minute I maintained pressure while he attempted to flair his arms wildly, hoping to connect with a lucky blow. What I did next, is not what a street fighter would be expected to do. In fact, as the one who had an undeniable upper hand, I showed a side of me that much like the way the fight developed in the first place was unplanned.

I fled.

As I look back at the short exchange that encompasses my lone street fight record, I can’t say that I acted as rough and tough as I would have wanted. Instead I was overcome by an urge to show mercy to the man who wished to fight me.

I raced across the street without looking back, knowing that my ultimate goal was to get home and forget about what had just happened. In the back of my mind, I knew my friend was alright. In fact, my real concern was the poor guy who lacked the judgment and picked a fight with him in the first place. I gave him a quick text just to verify and passed out in my bed.

Over the course of the next afternoon, I played out the events in my head as I remembered them. And while I felt cowardly for taking off and not finishing what I had started, I also felt as though I had ultimately taken the harder way out.

I learned that I had the guts to stick up to these men who challenged our manhood while I stood beside my friend. More importantly though, I learned that there is not the “killer instinct,” of hatred deep inside me that I imagined would come out in the right time and place. I suppose, I owe my parents for my upbringing, my family morals and instilling in me the notion of peace even during the most hectic of moments.

Sometimes we don’t know where we stand on an issue or what we believe until we are confronted with it face to face. As for fighting, I had seen it numerous times on TV, video games and several times as a spectator. Just when I had the opportunity to beat this guy up for being the meathead that he had acted like, something inexplicable took over and made me flee. Whatever the cause of this change in behavior may be, I knew after the next day, that I had no business being there in the first place.

In the middle of the brawl, I just didn’t have it in me. I had no ill feelings towards this guy nor did I want to pummel him and teach him a lesson. If anything, I felt sorry that he had taken his emotions out on me and that he was the one who winded up face first on the sidewalk and embarrassed.

It took the events of a post-Saturday night out with friends and a fight to make me realize that fighting is not in my nature. At least, as far as hurting another human on this earth. Deep down, I often wonder if I really am the pacifist who once attended a peace rally on my college campus and whether I can more easily accept war because I am farther down the kill chain than the grunt with his rifle pointed at an insurgent.

This is not to say that I won’t put up a fight. I’m more than willing to take on the side of good when the cause is just and the threat is real. And with that, I still have similar feelings like singer Tony Bennett who has characterized war as “the worst of human behavior, neither constructive nor intelligent.”

The following morning after the fight, I watched the last lecture by Dr. Randy Pausch on youtube about “achieving his childhood dreams.” I watched in awe as I listened to a man who set out and attained everything that he had ever wanted. Through his lecture, I turned that lens on myself and conversely saw a boy who wasn’t chasing his dreams and instead perhaps running away from them, like he had done the previous night.

I encourage you to spend the best 1 hour and 16 minutes of your week and listen to his lecture. If you’re like me, you will laugh, cheer and undoubtedly cry several times before it’s over. After it’s all said and done, hopefully you will look inside of yourself and ask whether you are where you always wanted to be. If not, I hope you will take the opportunity and advantage of the life that you have been blessed with and fight for every bit of that dream.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo

Entitled

2008-07-22T00:00:00.003-10:00

One would not expect to see the second richest man in the world to be doing business in Nebraska. And contrary to that assumption, that is exactly the place where 77 year old Warren Edward Buffet calls home. Tucked away in a modest office covered wall to wall in imitation wood paneling is a man who dedicates as much commitment towards the marketplace as he does equality.

It was in that same, humble and unassuming office that Mr. Buffet invited Senator Obama to in order to exchange views on tax policy and inheritance.

The first point of contention that Mr. Buffet made the newly elected Senator aware of was his indifference to the tax structure. He estimated that in 2006, he only paid 19% of his income ($48.1 million) in total federal taxes, while his employees paid 33% of theirs despite making far less money. According to him, “it just makes sense that those of us who’ve benefited most from the market should pay a bigger share.” He was particularly concerned with his receptionist who was taxed almost twice his rate.

He then pointed out how he discouraged getting rid of an estate tax and the tacit aristocracy that would go along with it. Buffet remarked, “When you get rid of the estate tax, you’re basically handing over command of the country’s resources to people who didn’t earn it. It’s like choosing the 2020 Olympic team by picking the children of all the winners at the 2000 games.”

While Buffet may rebuke the passing down of inheritance to those who have not earned it, there are thousands of families who are where they are today not solely based on individual achievement but more due to the trust funds that they started with. In essence, this behavior has spilled its way into universities where “legacy children,” are given more unnecessary advantages and even athletic competition where those who can “pay to play,” become far better off than the children who can’t afford to have the best equipment or travel on AAU teams.

The starting line has become more and more disimilar in America. There are some who get the head start and others who wind up in the back without getting the opportunity to even compete with everyone else. Entitlement has become a way of life for the rich elite and it all starts with a last name.

This false sense of entitlement is best illustrated on MTV’s hit TV show “Sweet Sixteen,” where birthday boys and girls are given extravagant parties on their parent’s dime all the while acting far superior to the rest of their classmates. At sixteen years old, they would have you think that they had earned their places in society.

And yet, outside of the reality TV realm, there stands a world filled with grown up versions of these sweet sixteen brats who feel that by the mere fate of birth, that they hold more stake in the American dream than the founding father’s who created its vision and the millions of immigrants who saw it through. The thousands who wait outside our borders are denied entry because these selfish individuals would rather feed themselves than pay the gift of Democracy forward for future generations of Americans. And still, they are the same people who will have you believe that spreading Democracy overseas in far away lands such as Iraq/Afghanistan is beneficial just as long as it is 'NIMBY.'

Some may call Warren Buffet an enigma by the way he has been able to profit with a unique investing strategy while maintaining a high degree of financial integrity. His views are not always shared by those of similar economic portfolios and perhaps that is what sets him apart from his peers. Mr. Buffet’s net worth is $62 billion and his children will receive less than %1 of that amount when he passes on. His attitudes about his fortune can best be summed up by his description of US capitalism.

“I happen to have a talent for allocating capital. But my ability to use that talent is completely dependent on the society I was born into. If I’d been born into a tribe of hunters, this talent of mine would be pretty worthless. I can’t run very fast. I’m not particularly strong. I’d probably end up as some wild animal’s dinner.

“But I was lucky enough to be born in a time and place where society values my talent and gave me a good education to develop that talent and set up the laws and financial system to let me do what I love doing—and make a lot of money doing it. The least I can do is help pay for all that.”

My .02 Cents

2008-07-14T19:53:00.001-10:00

I couldn’t have picked a more ironic title if I tried. As fate would have it, .02 cents was the exact amount that the cashier at the Food Pantry overlooked as she rang up my lactose free milk at $4.92 + tax, totaling $5.02 (the tax and price of milk in this instance is another blog altogether). Part of me saw her act as sincere as she handed me back the additional dollar and just accepted the $5 bill. The more analytical and cautious side of me resented her act of kindness and wanted to discourage the practice. Not only did I worry that she might be in trouble for not keeping a balanced register at the end of the night by forgetting to pony up the .02 cents but I also cringed at the idea that she along with millions were de-emphasizing the value of our currency.

I’ll concede the absolute fact that .02 or any denomination under the not-so-precious nickel doesn’t get you much these days by itself. Gone are the days of penny arcades and candy. But since when did money become so insignificant that we completely act as if the most plentiful of tender does not exist? With all of the concern of the economy spiraling downward, it’s sort of refreshing to know that at least my cashier isn’t too concerned about “pinching pennies.”

I get my frugalness from my parents. My entire childhood went virtually without name brands. Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, Mountain Dew were non-existent in my house. The household names in the Carroll refrigerator were Twist-up, Mountain Lightning, Dr. Thunder and my favorite of generic labels, “Cola.” And these were just the names of soft drinks that we purchased, I would go into detail about the rest of the items on our grocery list, except I’d just be prefacing every item with “Shaw’s.” And after the many years that my family cut coupons, denied me the .25 cent gumball at the store and ignored the pop marketing ads on TV, I can reasonably say that I don’t believe I missed out on anything spectacular.

In the grand scheme of our checkbooks, I suppose one cent isn’t that important. As humans we tend to be drawn to neat patterns and whole numbers. Whether we’re tipping the waiter at the restaurant or doing groceries, we inevitably round. But when we round for the worst, the aggregate can add up. When gas was $2.50 a gallon we weren’t alarmed. It spiked to $2.80 and still we didn’t seem to be up in arms. $2.82, 2.84. 2.86, 2.88, 2.90, 2.92 and the prices kept soaring to the national average of $4.00 that we see today. Tomorrow it might be $4.02 but how much angrier could we get? We’re just talking pennies right? Pennies that is, that added up and over the course of a year have us wondering what brought about such high gas prices?

Let us for a minute forget about supply and demand, speculation, the wars in the Middle east and just look at things from purely an economic standpoint where everybody from the supplier, manufacturer and gas companies at the pump out of reaction to higher prices all added .02 to their prices all along the chain until it ultimately got passed down to us the consumers. .02 cents multiplied many times over results in unhappy customers and high gas prices. This type of consumer behavior goes beyond butterfly effect theory. It equates to simply mathematics. When millions of people treat each cent as a “throw-away,” over many more millions of purchases, we can rightly assume that money is not being exchanged and in fact taken out of the marketplace.

Maybe one of the reasons why our pennies don’t do anything for us anymore, is because we simply don’t let them. We throw them into a used coffee can, never to redeem them or throw them into a well with a wish. In my 25 years of existence, I have never seen those pennies miraculously turn into dollars. All I ever see is poor people down on their luck and with a penny less. If we only acted as if every penny was valuable then maybe we would value more that was around us. In ten years who knows if inflation will be bad and if we treat the dollar the same as the penny? The way we so nonchalantly spend our money without paying the slightest attention to detail for every cent accounted for, there’s no wonder that governmental spending abuse happens and slips under our nose beyond our knowledge. It might be a stretch to assume that all of our economic woes revert back to a single copper coin but who says it ends there?

I just wish we’d look around and see that some people in this world live off less than a $1 a day. To them, a single penny means a lot to them and adds up in the course of their lifetime. Who are we to just throw it away along with the remainder of our dinner that we don’t want to bother to make leftovers out of.

When it comes to savings and economic advice, I’ll revert back to an old but classic quote. “A penny saved, is a penny earned.”

And these are my .02 cents.

Call Me Josh

2008-07-09T22:55:00.002-10:00

There’s always been much to do about titles. Some people enjoy the labels as it gives them some kind of social standing in the world. Over the years, I too have held various titles, none of which I enjoy and all of which make me feel uneasy. I’ve been called Mr., Cadet, Lieutenant, Sir and maybe even a few less appropriate nicknames from my friends. At the end of the day and sometimes right smack in the middle, I just enjoy hearing my actual name with nothing before or after. It might not be sexy, glamorous or give me anything to boost my ego but that’s just fine by me.

My Father used to tell me that the reason why he never told strangers his profession is because he didn’t want them to think that he was somehow putting himself above them. He never got too caught up in what people called him, probably because he has never seen himself other than a regular guy with a job. Whenever he’s called some form of attorney in public, I can see his embarrassment. I know that it’s not because he is ashamed of his profession but because I know as a simple man, he just prefers people to call him “Jim.”

Some families purposefully name their children by titles. In professional sports there’s “Champ” Bailey, “Peerless” Price, “Lawyer” Malloy, Rey (King in Spanish) Sanchez and the list goes on. Perhaps their parents wanted them to be judged and their logic was that if they had a grand title for a name to begin with then they might live with more self confidence and achieve distinction on their own someday. While some may call it chauvinistic and aggrandizing, I’m sure it’s better than the “boy, son or kid,” label that is placed on some minorities by those very people with the fancy titles.

I think we put too much emphasis on titles. We have gotten away from achievement and have based our culture around believing that a title defines who people are and is the pinnacle of success. I’m not suggesting that we should not pay respect of reverence to certain individuals whose life’s accomplishments ought to be respected. I just think that if we looked at one another less as the positions that we hold and more as mortal beings, then maybe we would learn to see each other more as equals.

Two of the most important people in the world go by titles (Pope Benedict and President Bush). Their titles alone almost insinuate that their decisions and actions are above everybody else and that they are infallible in every way. Perhaps if we just looked at them as Joseph and George respectively, then we wouldn’t have such unreasonable expectations and we could accept their mistakes more easily. Granted they hold offices of grand responsibility, but I think we get too caught up in Pope and President that we wrongfully assume that they are working every second of every day or that they are as we envision their title, "perfect."

After all, let's face it, the greatest and most humble man once walked this earth without a title. He didn’t got by Dr, General, President or Reverend. His name was Jesus and that was good enough for him.

Like a Champion

2008-07-01T22:08:00.006-10:00

The first section of the newspaper that Earl Warren opened up to in the morning was the Sports. For it was there that he could read all about mankind’s triumphs opposed to the front page which simply highlighted mankind’s failures. Oddly enough, in today’s newspapers it is a tough task to find any “good news,” from either front or back.

Contemporary athletes are under the microscope of the public eye. Little escapes the constant criticisms from fans and media alike. A dropped pass, a missed shot or strike out are always subject to the ubiquitous Monday morning quarterbacks that thrive on the should have/could have/would have/philosophy. Perhaps a better appreciation of today’s modern athlete would be in order if for once, some of the so-called experts’ got out from behind their desks, tried on a pair of sneakers and found themselves in the very arena that President Theodore Roosevelt felt so alive in:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

President Roosevelt was every bit a failure as he was a champion. As a child he was sickly and teased. It took him almost 20 years to find his niche as a biologist, writer, statesman, soldier and his most fond title of “cowboy.” None of those titles that he so rightfully earned were from the grandstands however. Rather, they were from the front lines in Cuba, the picket lines from the coal strikes and even across party lines as a politician.

I’ve always marveled at professional athletes. I’ve stalked them during batting practice at Fenway in order to get their autographs and collected their cards while attempting to memorize every statistic on the back. As I got older and started to train and understand the level of competition that was around me, I began to appreciate just how much work and dedication goes in before those seven figure checks get cashed. Few of us will ever get a look inside the gym where these high caliber athletes train and aside from the occasional reality show (for which I’m sure there is) the final product on Superbowl Sunday or the World Series might be as good as it gets. And for that I’m grateful.

I don’t get the opportunity to go in and see where you work and how well you do. I don’t stand over your shoulder at a desk making sure that every word that you typed was grammatically correct. I wonder how great of a feeling that might be for say Ken Griffey Jr if he followed one of his harshest critics to work. Nobody’s perfect, and nobody should expect athletes to be either. We expect them to make every shot, sure. But how many of those tough shots do we take in our own life?

This August we’ll have the privilege to watch such competition from some of the finest professional athletes from around the world. For over Four years athletes like Michael Phelps and Tyson Gay have trained year round to represent the US and for that shot at gold. I think they are worthy of our attention.

Two weeks after I left work early and stayed up late to watch every minute of the NBA Finals, I checked the mail to see that my Dad had sent me a bumper sticker of the Boston Celtics and the word “Champion,” in big bold letters. On it he attached a post-it that read “Always carry yourself like a Champion.”

I thought what a model to follow.

Back Spray

2008-06-16T22:35:00.003-10:00

In surfing there’s no worse feeling than the back spray off a wave that has just passed. The refreshing mist that trails a wave and falls on those who watched it go by only adds insult to the surfer who misjudged its magnitude in the first place. More often than not, I have found myself on the other side of some of these amazing waves, asking myself whether the surfers who caught these waves judged correctly or just took a chance and got lucky.

Each time that I feel the back spray coming off the peak of the wave, I am but constantly reminded of many of life’s waves that I too did not paddle for when they came my way. Sometimes I did not make those leaps of faiths out of foresight and others because of fear. No matter what the various reasons or excuses that I may have conjured up, I have felt the weight of the decisions that I have made fall heavier on my shoulders.

There’s a point when you fully commit to a wave when you realize that there’s no turning back. As the wave rises and lifts you up, there is nobody that can help you except the preparation, skill and faith within you. In a sense there is a freedom of the unknown and exhilaration in not knowing whether you are going to ride it to the end or if you are going to wipe out entirely. As sure as I know that I am a mediocre surfer at best, I can say without question that I’d much rather wipe out than not try at all.

At 25, I can see many similarities between surfing and life. Sometimes when I am out there competing for waves and fighting my way for position, I can sense that cut throat competition that I wished to escape in the first place. Other times, I’ll look around and find that it’s only me paddling in the wide open waters. Both extremes comfort me. I can neither accept one or the other at all times just as I cannot have both simultaneously. I must choose my own path and look inward for what it is that I wish to achieve.

I often wonder about my missed opportunities when I see surfers riding a wave that I should have been on. There’s a certain kind of envy that goes along with watching a wave break towards the shore.

I can’t help but be jealous of my former classmates from High School and College whose accomplishments I also see from a distance. I hear that some are starting families, finishing up graduate school or putting a down payment on a new home. Part of me is taken back to that passive observer sitting on his board, watching the waves go by with other people on them.

Three years have passed since I have been in the military and I often wonder whether I made the right choice to join the service. I think of some of the personal and career sacrifices that I have made because of this lofty vision to follow the footsteps of great leaders. As I look back to that naïve 22 year old who raised his right hand, I wonder how much of that young man I have sacrificed at the expense of my own individual goals. I wonder how much of my principles I have compromised due to my own ambitions.

It'd be realtively easy to play the blame game and second guess every decision that I have made. As much as sometimes I'd just assume give up my place in the water, I know that there will always be more waves to come. When it comes down to it, I must take control of my own wave and ride it to the best of my ability. When the ride is over, I’ll make sure to stay on my board and paddle out like hell for the next one.

Scent of a Wallflower

2008-06-10T20:52:00.001-10:00

He was ten minutes late as the verse to the second hymn was being sung by a sea of worshipers. He found his way through the groups of families in their Sunday‘s best and stood beside another insecure man, in myself. I initially smelled him as he made his way into my aisle and knew that our similarities ended there.

After the song was over our pastor asked us to extend a “good morning,” greeting to our neighbors. But before I was even able to turn to the man standing next to me, I noticed that his head was dropped as if to save other’s the trouble of having to acknowledge his existence. I deliberately waited patiently, hoping that he would look up and after a matter of seconds he hesitantly accepted my hand.

It was nothing less than an awkward moment shared by two social introverts. After we shook hands, he took off his faded, mesh red trucker hat to reveal his long combed hair and it was obvious that this was his way of making an effort for his appearance at church. Little did he know, that the church nor its members would make no such accommodations for him.

I sat uneasy at times as I watched the small children around us stare in his direction and whisper to their parents like he was a sideshow at a circus. I began to feel a strange aura around us as if he were unwelcome. I was embarrassed for him.

He was the kind of guy that people pass on the sidewalk without stopping to say hello. For one, he most likely walked with his head parallel to the pavement and two, his body odor is such that people ignore him because of his scent. In fact, he probably had gone his entire life without saying as much as a sentence to anyone in a given week. Yet on this beautiful Sunday morning, this man attracted more glances than anyone in the congregation. Amidst all of the singing, praying and hoopla that was going on, my neighbor became something that he probably never asked for; the center of attention.

I started to think about God’s message and the sole purpose of Christians like myself and the reason why we even attended places like church. And alas, just as the offerings were being passed to the man next to me who had no money to give, I saw the disconnect. For many in that church it was enough for them to listen to the preacher’s sermon, give their tithings and check off their good deed of having attended. These people were on their way to self-centered happiness with not a care in the world.

The prerequisites became clear as I scanned the room only to see the common attire of pressed aloha shirts, pagers clipped onto the belts and fancy strollers. Church all of a sudden seemed more like a members-only club than a setting for prayer. I began to wonder, “since when did Christians become a strictly middle to upper class social group?” I questioned what our mission was as a church and who we were called to serve if people like the guest who sat beside me was treated like the outsider I’m sure he felt like.

I noticed more unfriendly piercing stares from all directions and wondered if the quiet man to my left did the same. I scoffed at the idea that church had become something less about our neighbors and more about oneself.

Later in the service as people joined hands, I once again offered my hand to the man to my left. I held it there in plain site, hoping that he would reach out and grab it. Again he reluctantly gave in as if it were only the second time someone had ever offered. (To prove my theory, the lady beside him did not hold hers out). And so, we stood together, the homeless man and I. Neither of us sang but we stood shoulder to shoulder, praising our Creator, with humility, bashfulness but as equals.

I try to imagine how hard it must have been for that man to walk into a church filled with hundreds of people from a different walk of life and on opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. While I felt that in a basic sense I could relate to his reticence, I don’t quite know where he came up with the courage to walk into a place filled with people who would just assume pretend that he wasn’t there.

I sometimes don’t know how to respond to people like my neighbor in church or how to act around them. I don’t know whether to ignore them like the rest of society and let them live a life of absolute privacy and isolation or to embrace them and show them even the most basic forms of courtesy. While I keep trying to figure that one out in each encounter that I have, I know that at the very least we can show them some dignity. And so what if that doesn’t mean rolling out the red carpet or handing them a stack of money. Maybe all dignity has to be is holding a strangers hand at church…no matter what they look like, where they came from or how they smell.

Called to Bunt

2008-05-16T02:37:00.005-10:00

Clichés have a way of penetrating our language and as a result, our culture as well. If you do a quick search through your MP3, DVD collection or book shelf, you will be bound to find hundreds of labels that are nothing more than clichés.

The Gripe:

Before I started my blog, I knew that in order for people to read it, I had to have a title that was catchy, meaningful and original. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. As it turned out, “writing the wrongs,” was not as unique of a header as I had first thought. As you can imagine, I was thoroughly disappointed. After entering the name of my blog into a search engine, I was saddened to see that my idea of the perfect name to my first ever blog had been abused to the point that the phrase had been rendered useless, tamed and forgettable.

It was because of moments like this, that I have always tried to avoid clichés, like the plague.

Sayings have a way of becoming the next pop culture buzz slang. However, rather than sulk about my misfortune and idea gone aloof, I decided to change the title altogether to a name less overused in everyday speak and more substantive.

My Solution:

In essence, I traded my cliché for a metaphor which could very well turn into tomorrow’s cliché. I first came across the idea “Called to Bunt” while reading, “All Too Human,” by former Clinton staffer George Stephanopoulos, when he recalled a passage that then Governor Mario Cuomo had passed to him from Ken Burn’s book on baseball: “I love the idea of the bunt. I love the idea of sacrifice. Even the word is good. Give yourself up for the good of the whole.”

The excerpt reminded me both of my parents who embody the very concept of this act as well as a purpose that I have been meant to serve.

If there was ever a better line that a fan of baseball and humanity like me could emulate or relate to, I don’t think I’ve yet found it. The thought of “bunting,” represents everything that a baseball player or person should strive towards. The bunt is a simple play but not one envied by those who wish to hit the crowd favored home run. It’s an act that often goes unnoticed. It is an act as selfless as the person behind it.

Oddly, when I think about bunting, I don’t think of baseball immediately. Instead, I think of my parents who have essentially “bunted their entire lives. The immeasurable sacrifices that they made to raise their children were not done by people who wished to be the center of attention. The desire to see all four of us succeed was the act of two parents who would have rather starved then to see us go without.

As a baseball player, I used to hate to bunt. I preferred to swing away so that I could get on base. Now a days I see that it takes special, humble individuals to lay down a bunt even when it often times leads to that person being called out. I think about all of the people that I consider bunters and realize how important they are to the functioning of our society. No, you will not find them in the newspaper or on the red carpet of an awards banquet. Their averages will not be on the top of the statistics leader board or names etched into the Hall of Fame. Bunters don’t do it for the glory or seek the limelight. They do it all for the team.

The name of my blog is “Called to Bunt.” It’s catchy, meaningful and for lack of foresight, original. Still, it is more than a title for a collection of my thoughts and essays, it’s my mantra.

Maybe I should copyright it!

Singled Out

2008-05-11T22:49:00.003-10:00

I picked her delicate frame up out of the car seat with such amusement as our eyes met halfway in a moment that can only be described as heavenly. The feeling didn’t last long however, as I noticed the after-meal hard candy mint dripping down her tiny fingers while she extended her hand as to offer me the rest. Right then my immediate reaction was… “Oh no my seats!”

Selfish? Definitely. Although I assured myself as a 25 year old with minimal interaction with toddlers, my thought process was as common as any. Then again, I doubt there would have been a blink of the eye had I have been a single mother.

Her mom thanked me several times over throughout the drive home for taking her and the two kids out for a Mother’s Day dinner. Had I had half of the guts of her, I would have told her she had it all wrong, that she was the one that deserved all of the praise. The words “thank you,” coming out of her mouth in my direction landed on my guilty ears and ate my heart out. I couldn’t help but sheepishly reply, “You’re welcome,” as I glanced at my rear view mirror and saw the two beautiful children that she had raised up until that point.

On several occasions I have mentioned my list of heroes growing up. Atop the list have been soldiers, teachers, nurses, coaches’ everyday volunteers and pretty much any hard working person who doesn’t wear a tie and sit behind a comfortable desk all day. After my Mother’s Day dinner with the three best dates one could offer, I couldn’t resist adding another type of person to that list; Single Moms.

Talk about a hero and what great company for my list as she ranks with all of those people who I have grown so fond of and looked up to for all of these years. I don’t think any of them would mind either.

I’ve never really appreciated a single mother as much as I did during my dinner with her wonderful family. I watched her closely as she chose to feed her kids before herself. I saw soups, sauces, sodas and everything in-between fly all over the table and at times spill onto her clothes. Complaints? None. Don’t I feel ashamed now for some drool on my leather seats? In the end, she had the audacity to thank me with the kind of humility you would expect to hear from a Mother Theresa. I didn’t even know God made these kinds of people.

This particular single mother should have received a round of applause from that restaurant as she brilliantly orchestrated a complex evening affair of flying food, crawling babies, hyper children all the while carrying on a half way decent dinner conversation with the other adult at the table. Did I mention that we went to a cook-it-yourself- steakhouse, where she…. (Sound of trumpets) did the majority of the cooking?

Indeed, all single Mother’s deserve more than the hallmark holiday that they share with the rest of the Mother’s who have help. Single Moms deserve their own holiday and much, much more. If the expression “doing God’s work,” ever rang true, it does so without error for what they deal with on a daily basis.

In a world with so many dead beat Dads that refuse to accept responsibility; those acts ought to be thought of as criminal. My view of the world is so much deeper after having spent a loud, sometimes stressful but overall enjoyable dinner with a single mom and her family. I never thought that such an event would be so profound before it took place. I guess if I had to sum up the entire experience, I would say “A single Mom saved my world.”

Thank you to all of you Single Mother’s out there that may have stumbled across this blog. May you know that you are far stronger than you can even imagine. God bless and keep the faith!

For God or Money?

2008-04-09T02:24:00.004-10:00

As Martin Luther walked up the steps to post his 95 theses on the doors of the Wittenberg Castle Church in 1517, he saw to bringing an end to the indulgencies of the Catholic Church. To him, the church that he would soon relinquish as his own had been more interested in finances than salvation.

In short, Luther believed even the Catholic Church had its price.

Lately, it has been hard for me to accept fault in the Catholic Church. Bias, I had blindly defended everything about it as being infallible. Nevertheless, as I have begun to peel back the layers of the past to revisit them with my own objective conscience, I have seen at times a very cruel and dark history. From the indulgencies which Luther abhorred, to the sexual abuse scandal of the 21st century, I cannot help but acknowledge the sins that have penetrated my religion.

In recognizing the obvious flaws in my own church, I have found it difficult if not downright hypocritical in calling out the faults of other churches as I understand that all of the major religions worldwide share more similarities than differences. However, as a member of a church which has undergone much controversy and strains in the past, I cannot help but notice that history may be indeed repeating itself.

Today there are many religions that trace their origins back to the protestant reformation that Luther initiated. One of which are the Evangelicals who are quickly becoming the new face of Christianity in the modern age.

My first introduction to these “born again” Christians had been during a Thanksgiving service in 2005 when my brother invited my parents and me to see for ourselves. The service had been my first experience outside of Catholic Mass and to my surprise was very uplifting. The band was fresh and hip, the sermon felt relevant for a change and the back of the heads I witnessed were not just the usual gray that one would find in a Catholic mass, but colorful and young.

As the service went on, I was almost relieved (as were my knees) of the informality that the service took. While the singing was at times over the top and the stage set up with giant size screens seemed theatrical and overdone, I could easily understand why people attended. It felt like a rock concert save the drugs.

After the service my brother drove us past the house of the pastor who had just preached about “living our lives like Jesus.” To my disenchantment, I saw a house about 10 times bigger than the one I grew up in. My brother proudly pointed it out from the others as if I were supposed to marvel at its greatness. To me, I found it particularly difficult to understand how this multi-million dollar mansion that was paid in part by my brother who was tithing had anything to do with the way Jesus lived. To this day, I still can’t find anyone to give me a reasonable explanation as to why that pastor lives so lavishly.

Since that time, I have been to several Evangelical churches and have even tuned into the televangelists when I feel like being entertained. Each time I walk away with the same conclusion in my head, “practice what you preach.” It’s an easy enough cliché to comprehend but hard to execute. Sometimes I even revert back to the popular “WWJD,” that made its way onto many a Christian wrist back in the late 90s and whose origin probably and ironically started with the “born agains.”

My feelings towards Evangelicals are not out of resentment. Many of them are better practicing Christians than myself and could do circles around me in terms of their knowledge of the bible. It is not that bible study that I am concerned about, but rather the undeniable profiteering that feeds itself first rather than helpless mouths.

A few months back my girlfriend took me to see Benny Hinn while he was in town for one of his “midnight crusades.” Without knowing much about his ministry, I was impressed at first sight. After passing around the bucket and soliciting his audience for generous donations, he began his “healing,” which I now consider part hypnosis and part bullshit. I immediately had a flash back to Steve Martin’s movie Faith, except this guy wasn’t a con artist, he really believed what he was doing.

At the touch of his hand, I saw him drop rows of people in the crowd under this pretense of being “healed.” He pointed his finger towards the choir up in the balcony and like a tidal wave; they fell limp in their seats. From a distance, I saw old men and women being screened by physicians before they could approach this “healer named Benny Hinn.” Many of them never did get on that stage. Those that did make it, ended up shaking on the stage within seconds of being in Pastor Hinn’s presence. Canes, wheelchairs, glasses and hearing aids were thrown off the stage one after another.

When I got home, I did what any suspicious man who had thought he just saw several thousand miracles would do…I “googled him.” I found what I expected to find all along. I saw pictures of Benny Hinn getting into his $80,000 Mercedes and of his multi-million dollar mansion(s). I watched a 60 minutes documentary on a man who was afraid to talk straight into the camera after being caught red-handed of the lies, deceit and corruption that were a staple of his ministry. All along as I had watched him supposively cure Cancer, arthritis, deafness and blindness, I thought “this is too good to be true.”

I was right.

If you tune into one of these televangelists you will hear a common theme of “sowing your seed.” This merely means, “Give more money.” It’s safe to say that these Pastors, are far more interested in lining their pockets than giving back. Their claim that the more one sows, the more ones money will grow cannot possibly be thought to be doing God’s work. They don’t talk about investing or working harder at ones craft but rather having faith that God places a premium on finances.

What bothers me about this concept and the continuous lectures is that these pastors prey mostly on those who have nothing but hope and a prayer left. As I left Benny Hinn’s service and looked around at the thousands that had filled the auditorium to be healed but were left dealing with their illness, I saw the agent of change to be less of Benny Hinn and more of healthcare. What those people needed was more of the latter. It is my belief that it is almost fraudulent to place the hopes of ones fate and/or destiny on a sealed envelop with money in it.

As a Catholic, I have placed my faith in God. But even with that, I know that my own personal goals have their limits as I am subject to the Almighty’s plan.

As I look at this emerging church whose members total over 400 million, I gasp at the greed and downright intolerance that its members have been asked to accept. Then, just as I am prepared to point the finger at the transgressions that have tainted more Christians, I begin to look inward and see that these are the same mistakes that Catholics have been accused of.

I wonder when and where the next Martin Luther will pop up to post his “theses,” for the world to see. Perhaps instead of being nailed on a church door, this one will reach a broader audience by internet…perhaps by something much like this blog.

A Man's Worth

2008-03-20T06:41:00.002-10:00

After walking aimlessly throughout the grocery store, it became apparent to me that I had no business being there. The “fish out of water,” cliché doesn’t nearly fit into the reality that I was in. In a sense, I felt like a zombie, walking the aisles stone faced, looking for any signs of my girlfriend who was doing the “real shopping.”

I was more than out of my element this time, I was in a place where the females had the home court advantage and the rest of us so-called men were there to merely push the cart. As I looked at my fellow Y chromosomes in the checkout lane, I saw a look of acceptance in their faces that whatever happened to be in that cart, was A) good for them and B) regardless was what they were going to eat for the next week or so.

Lately, it’s been more than the grocery store that has led me to the conclusion that women have more control than men. For me, it’s been every time that I look around my immaculate apartment after coming home from work. It’s when I look into the laundry bin and see that all of my dirty clothes have been cleaned. And it’s at dinner time when I smell the fresh aromas of cooking in the kitchen. Each day, I am more and more thankful for the chores that my girlfriend has taken up. I realize that while I may have the higher income, I am by no means the “head of the household.”

The females in my life (grandmothers, mother, sisters, friends and girlfriend) are incredible. I could detail everything that they do on top of their jobs that keeps their significant others going but I don’t want anyone to think that I’m in somehow going back 50 years by commenting on gender roles. Instead, I would like all of the men to appreciate the crap (and yes that is the appropriate word here) that females put up with on a daily basis save childbirth which is immeasurable to me at this point.

I don’t have to study the millions of females around the world that do the types of activities that make a man’s world as convenient as possible. All I really have to do is to look at my own home and see how easy I have it.

I suppose this post is more or less an ode to women but more importantly my girlfriend, who cooks, cleans, goes to school and holds a part time job all the while putting up with my constant BS. Additionally, she also gives some great advice. When I asked her what I could do to make my blog more appealing, she quickly replied, “Keep it short.”

Point taken.

Black Hole?

2008-03-15T07:05:00.005-10:00

There’s nothing sexy about the country of Sudan. It’s not a place that most journalists, tourists or policymakers choose to visit. Its geography is largely dry and flat with nothing more to offer the world than modest reserves of crude oil and strife. The name Sudan is derived from Arabic “Bilad-al-Sudan,” literally meaning, “land of all blacks.” It is that translation that perhaps resonates most for Americans as it is seen as a country of little to no value to the western world.

If you don’t want to know more and want to continue to live in the blissful ignorance that you have become accustomed to, then I would suggest that you stop reading here. It only gets worse. To continue reading would seriously jeopardize the neat little safe haven that you are comfortable with. The truth is that Sudan along with many other countries in Africa (that get even less publicity) are in dire need of outside help and if assistance is not given to them in the immediate future, then their place in the world will perish and the rest will be history.

It should come as no surprise that 20% of young Americans believe Sudan to be part of Asia, even though it is the largest country in Africa. And while Hollywood has been making strides towards awareness by marketing the genocide within the country with popular movements such as “Save Darfur,” “the enough project,” “Not on our Watch,” and “Live 8, the conventional wisdom has still been to ignore the continent of Africa in its entirety and to discard it as a land of hopelessness.

Since 2003 experts have estimated that over 200,000 men, women and children have died at the hands of government sponsored militants known as the janjaweed in Darfur. What’s more is that this number is low balled from estimates that have the death toll well over 350,000 with an equal number projected to die in the coming months according to the United States Agency for International Development. If broken down that would be more than 500 killed each day or 15,000 a month. Additionally, of those who have survived this brutality, 2.5 million have been displaced from their homes, many of whom are women and children who are suffering from malnourishment.

The story does not end here though.

Internal conflict is not exclusive to just Sudan. Similar displacements to the tune of 1.4 million are escalating in Uganda where young boys and girls known by some as the “invisible children,” are abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army and forced to join their ranks.
The United Nations largest peacekeeping force is not in Sudan or Uganda but rather the Democratic Republic of Congo where last year 500,000 were displaced and 45,000 die each month. Stories of women and children are also routinely reported for the horrendous sexual torture that is forced upon them.

I could go on with a laundry list of examples of countries under the same plight but out of fear that they would be treated as just that by viewers (a laundry list) where people would wash themselves clean of the horrors that affect millions of people, I’ll simply list them and allow the readers to look up their backgrounds at their leisure: Angola, Algeria, Burundi, Liberia, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Zimbabwe and Rwanda.

So the questions that I can never find answers to are; Has this blog reached anybody that will do something useful with their time to change the life of maybe just one human being in Africa? Do numbers and statistics reach our conscience? Do pictures and images of slaughter and rape push us into action? Are eloquent words about humanity and suffering worthless? Are trendy Hollywood ambassadors useful? Ah…the rub?

Maybe we do need Paris Hilton and Britney Spears to visit Africa to bring attention to the world. I think that if the paparazzi were to follow them down there and see for themselves the violence that is afflicting Africans all over the continent, then maybe they would put their cameras to good use and enlighten the rest of us. As much as it pains me to see Kanye West saying anything other than “Welcome to the good life,” perhaps his presence in Darfur could open our eyes and awaken our consciences.

Then again, the Live 8 concerts had a remarkable turnout and produced little in terms of putting pressure on the Sudan government to halt its practices of backdoor support to the janjaweed or demands on the Chinese government and major corporations to divest from Sudan. No, I think this is one problem that not even Bono will be able to fix. The intervention required will take the serious attention and interest of western populations that care to look at Africa not as a continent infested with civil war and AIDS but as a place where human beings have the right to live.

I haven’t gone into gruesome detail of violence that I have read so much about. Nor have I given a thorough background paper on what is actually going on in parts like Darfur. Instead, I ended the last few paragraphs talking about celebrities just like the rest of the news; I’m no better. And for that, I like the others who have tried to reach a tiny cross section of the world have come up short.

My main point which sometimes gets lost in the convoluted and at times incoherent sentences of mine, is that we choose not to act. It would certainly be one thing if we didn’t know about the crisis out of the lack of reporting or information at our disposal. The reality is that any search engine with the word “Darfur, Sudan, Congo, Uganda etc…” will bring up a myriad of hits that talk to the heart of the matter. Americans cry apathy far too much, citing elections as just one example. I don’t buy it in this case. Genocide is a cause we can take up and is the exact word that the US and UN have used repeatedly to describe parts of Africa.

For once we need to listen to our President who in the past may have led us astray in his leadership but in case is spot on, "I promise this to the people of Darfur: The United States will not avert our eyes from a crisis that challenges the conscience of the world.”

America Strong

2008-03-11T04:08:00.007-10:00

The sweat dripped down my face as I put one foot in front of the other. Cars zipped past the side of me on their way to the beautiful ocean view that was giving me my last bit of inspiration.

Slowly, I jogged up the steep incline with my eyes staring at the pavement moving beneath me. As soon as I looked up I saw another runner coming my way down the hill. In an ever subtle gesture he gave me a nod of acknowledgement and then a ‘thumbs up’ as if to encourage me. In that split second exchange, we had connected on a similar level; a runner’s level. I knew he had just been where I was a few minutes before and he knew the pain that I was enduring.

On my way back down the hill I encountered several other runners embarking on the same climb that I had just done. Without hesitation and without a sense of obligation, I gave a small wave as we crossed paths. Call it a runner’s thing, a symbol of unity or whatever you wish. The bottom line was that we were all trying to get up that hill.

Running is very much an individual activity and even though there are running groups here and there, the vast majority of runners like to go at it alone. Some people do it competitively in marathons while others just go out to get in shape or to give themselves an excuse to get out of the office. Despite the reasons why people choose to torture their knees for long periods of time, there is one common denominator; the struggle. It is that struggle that connects us, that bonds us.

That instance when I was running up towards Diamond Head and got a motivational thumb’s up is not unique. Almost every time I go out for a run, I encounter similar signals, whether it be a wave, a wink, a big smile and of course the ‘thumbs up.’ The point is that runner’s like to see other runners out on the roads, putting in work when everyone else is at the beach or watching TV. There is an instant sort of brotherhood that is unspoken but understood.

After my last run, I began to ask myself if I had similar experiences in other aspects of my life where complete strangers offer signs of deference out of the blue. For whatever reason, that guy who reached out and made that simple notion to me made me realize that although running is an individual activity, I was by no means out there by myself. I thought for a minute on my descent and then immediately thought of work.

Whenever I enter the gates to work, I am greeted with a sharp salute. Over years of military custom, the salute has begun to mean a lot of things. The most important of which is mutual respect. Salutes are common in the military and for most of us they are second nature. Whenever I see a troop coming my way to salute me, I return a crisp one back without ever thinking twice. Along with the salute comes the verbal greeting (morning, afternoon, evening) and if we are really motivated that particular day, a “Hooah!”

The salute is not a gesture that civilians do. It’s a special sign of solidarity between military folks that is a constant reminder that, “we’re in this fight together.” Like runners, military men and women are easy to spot out in our uniforms. Even outside of work most store owners can spot us a mile away with our short hair cuts and demeanors.

Some storeowners identify me as one of them even.

Whenever I visit a Korean owned store, I’ll call out “on yang hay say yo,’ –one of the few phrases that I know in that language. Right away, I am in their graces. For the most part, they have already identified me as one of them and my broken Korean if anything, lets them know that I would be talking in English as I do business.

I love seeing the old Korean ladies light up as I walk into their stores. I know that I will get some extra unfair hospitality and occasionally a discount. I also know that 9 times out of 10 if they have a daughter, they will probably show me pictures of her. I love Koreans.

On my way back from my deployment (a plane ride lasting over 36 hours with layovers) I met a very nice flight attendant. Maybe too nice. “Are you Korean?” She asked as she handed me my meal. “Yes,” I replied. Her smile grew large.

After she had seen I was done with my meal, she had another one in her hands steaming hot. I politely tried to refuse as I pointed to my stomach to try to tell her that I was full, but she left the tray there anyways. Out of embarrassment and respect I ate the meal and put it on the empty seat next to me as I closed my eyes.

A half hour later she was back. “Are you still hungry?” she asked. “No thanks, I’m really full,” I replied. I knew that my response was not the end of it. And sure enough, plate number three came my way. I looked around to see if anyone else was getting the “hook up,” and to my guilt, saw nothing of the sort. By the time the plane landed in Hawaii, I was full and wide awake. For I had gotten a great night of sleep thanks to the additional pillows and blankets that she had given me throughout the flight as well as the constant service.

Thinking about the runners, the military folks and Koreans that I come across on a daily basis, I began to wonder whether Americans have anything that we do collectively to show that we are Americans.

I am an American first. And although I wear many hats and belong to various social circles, I am proud that no matter where I am, I am a part of a great nation. That great nation though, does not show its solidarity as well as it probably should. We are constantly divisive on ethnic, religious, economic and political matters. The more I walk around and see the face of America today, the more I begin to see a clear line between the “haves and the have nots.”

I turn on the news and see commentators yelling back and forth at one another about differences of opinions. These debates solve nothing but are the epitome of this hatred and resentment that is everywhere.

Other than the national anthem that is played before ball games or the 4th of July, is there ever a sense of belonging for us all. Most of us are too busy with ourselves and too wrapped up in our self interest to think anything of our fellow Americans who have less.

So what is an American? Is it the man who cuts his fellow driver off on the freeway so that he can get home five minutes earlier? Is it the guy who refused to hold the elevator open while he looks away and pretends that he didn’t hear you chasing it down. Is it the real estate agent preying on the elderly to purchase a reverse mortgage? Is it the car dealer who sells a lemon jus to spin a profit? Or how about the southerner whose family immigrated to America two generations before but now acts as if immigration is this terrible thing now?

I’m not suggesting we wear red white and blue everyday or that we salute one another as we pass by. All I’m saying is that we can be more cordial, treat people with respect and dignity…as equals! We must overcome our bitterness towards people who don’t think the way we do or even act it. America is more than a piece of land in the northern hemisphere. To me, it is an ideal of democracy, a shining city upon a hill that can be recognized as a beacon of hope for all of those around the world. Together we are united and above we are “indivisible.”

“His foreparents came to America on immigrant ships. My foreparents came to America on slave ships. But whatever the original ships, we’re in the same boat tonight.”

Rev Jesse Jackson

Take a number!

2008-03-06T12:08:00.006-10:00

It was November 7, 1950 and Earl Warren was on the verge of winning a third term as California’s governor. Instead of celebrating in the governor’s mansion, Earl and his wife Nina were at the bedside of their youngest daughter Honey Bear who had come down with a case of infant paralysis. Shaken and unusually somber, Warren isolated himself even when the election returns came favorably pouring in. As Governor, Earl Warren’s health plan covered his family (six children and wife), an acknowledgement that Warren felt a deep appreciation and gratitude for. In response to the abundant medical care costs, Warren remarked to a reporter, “What would the average family do if afflicted this way? They wouldn’t have any resources to take care of it.”

And so was the turning point for a governor who would become one of the greatest Chief Justices in American history. A man who began his law and political career as a conservative from the Republican party to a compassionate overseer of justice as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. From that event forward, Chief Warren would take off his wingtip shoes and try on a pair from the working class citizen’s perspective.

Chief Warren never did get health care coverage for all of his constituents. Instead he was as he put it, “glad to be going to the supreme Court because now I can help the less fortunate, the people in our society who suffer, the disadvantaged.“ President Eisenhower would remark several years after his appointment of the Chief to the bench “was the biggest damn fool thing I ever did.” With irony as our witness, just as Eisenhower thought of Chief Warren as his biggest mistake, history has claimed the Chief Ike’s greatest success.

My perspective on health care does not come by a sob story of struggling to fight an HMO. I have never once been denied medical help nor do I have inadequate coverage. I’m not one of the fifty or so million adults without health insurance that we hear so much about. I make this argument because I wonder like Chief Warren, “what happens to all of those who are not covered by the government?”

It would be very easy for me to stay out of this debate. I’m a government employee as a member of the armed services where I get 100% health care coverage at any time of day for any illness. I could get on the phone right now and be seen by a doctor today, tomorrow and for as long as I so choose. I’ve had every vaccine that exists and even get priority for the flu shot. A year ago if you recall there weren’t even enough to cover all senior citizens (the ones who needed them the most!). The scars on my arm are a constant reminder that I am one of the privileged few who will be taken care of at no cost to me by Uncle Sam. For that alone I feel grateful, but also in a great sense; guilty.

The bottom line is that I’m a healthy 25 year old adult male who has a health plan that more than covers my needs. I’m very fortunate that I pay nothing into this system whereas many like my parents pay upwards of $15,000 a year. I mention all of this as a means to brag by the way. I’m not being modest. I want everyone to know that I could walk across the street to CVS to pick up a prescription of pain killers or skin products without paying a dime. I talk to my physician regularly and have seen a doctor more times than I can count in the past year. Oh, another thing, I’m not even sick. I haven’t broken any bones or anything of that nature. I just have the taxpayers of America to thank.

I would also like the American people to know that the US is the only wealthy industrialized nation without a universal health care system. That’s a fact. We are surrounded by countries who provide for their citizens, from our neighbors to the north, Canada to the south such as Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica, Uruguay…even Cuba! Oh and Mexico will probably have it in a year. There are more; Austria, Belgium, Bosnia, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, Estonia, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Malta, the Netherlands, Norway, Liechtenstein, Luxemburg, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, the United Kingdom, Brunei, India, Kuwait, Qatar, UAE, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Japan, Malaysia, New Zealand, South Korea, Seychelles, Sri Lanka, Taiwan and Thailand.

I wouldn’t want anyone to think that this is a revolutionary concept though.

It would be hard for me to imagine how I might react if I had a terminally ill friend or relative who sought medical care but were refused due to health insurance technicalities and disqualifying preconditions. I know for certain that I would not walk away. Therefore, before it even gets to that point in which I do as Denzel Washington did for his son in John Q or before I cross the border to Canada for generic drugs or renounce my citizenship so that I could fly to France and come under their plan, I think we ought to re-look the situation.

The politicians we hear debating this issue so tenaciously are the same elected officials that receive congressional health care. Your taxpayers ensure that if they are sick, they will be treated. As far as I’m concerned, they are hypocrites for even having a say in the discussion. Many of these people also receive substantial amounts of money from insurance companies and pass legislation to protect the lobbyists that line their pockets and provide for their campaigns. but don’t take my word for it.

The problem as I see it is not that our hospitals are broken. The problem is that health care is not affordable. Millions of Americans do without because they must choose between pills or food. Doctor’s must turn away potential patients who are sick because they don‘t have an insurance card. Families must choose between life saving medical procedures or death all because of money. Is that how far we’ve come? Have we devalued the human being by putting a price tag on his or her body? Since when has that been what medicine was all about? Call me naïve, but I always assumed one of the reasons doctors went into medicine was to help people. If given the choice, I guess I’d rather be a doctor in a country that didn’t have to worry about these petty things.

These are awful options but they are reality. Even those who have insurance plans are not covered sufficiently enough and are often given lesser and more cost efficient treatments at their own health’s expense.

Some of you may be thinking I’m throwing a political pitch your way. I can guarantee you that I’m doing no such thing. I can only guarantee that the facts that I have presented are true and as a consequence, the people who deal without health care are real.

I ask whoever reads this the following questions: Why a country like Cuba-communist and sworn enemies of the US-has health care for all of its citizens? Why can criminals in federal prisons get health care and the rest of the law abiding Americans cannot? Why can all of the countries aforementioned find innovative ways to provide a basic service while the US refuses? Why have we as a nation become so selfish that we would rather turn a blind eye to this injustice?

I state injustice because that is surely the word that Chief Warren would use in this instance. Health care is more than a problem, it ought to be our mission. It transcends political indifference and supersedes that overarching goal of individual prosperity. It is the linchpin of the right to life and is in the fundamental catalyst that drives our pursuit of happiness. Health care is a civil liberties issue not a partisan one. It is a fight worthy of our attention. As the ole’ Chief might say, “if it isn’t worth fighting for, it isn’t worth having.”

We are a nation held together by a common set of values. Our bond is only as strong as the weakest link. That weak link is health care. Let’s do something about it.

Emails with Dad

2008-02-28T00:09:00.004-10:00

I have always looked up to my dad, literally. And up until recently as his poor knees have given way to years of asphalt and hard work, just figuratively. Today we sort of see eye to eye, even though my vision of him has grown to larger than life proportions. To this day I can’t imagine him than anything other than my boyhood super hero that could do anything conceivable. He is a giant in my eyes and a giant he will stay.

I’m the youngest of four. My two older sisters and brother are spread out across the country leaving their roots back home in New Hampshire. It’s only fitting that the one thing that has connected us all back to dad has been the internet. Many have praised the internet for its advancement of research, international commerce and other things. For my family, the simplest of all devices that it provides is a means to get unfiltered, earnest and inspirational advice whenever we desire from dad.

Most of the time I can picture him in his office typing back to me among the clutter of ‘real work,’ he has. If you were to ask him though, he’d probably tell you that he was doing real work by responding back to our little requests on how to cook our turkey or questions regarding what’s wrong with our cars? To him, just because we are many miles away from home in separate directions, does not mean that he has ever stopped being dad. Along with all of the titles people have given him throughout the years, dad will always be my favorite, since I know only four of us are afforded that privilege.

Reading his emails never get old. No matter how many times I’ve read a particular one or how busy I am. I marvel at the man behind these sometimes poetic and sometimes misspelled emails to the point of incomprehension. In a different life he may have been a writer himself but for my family, he’s just dad. For a man who had spent so many years in kitchens and on construction sites, an eloquent thought or suggestion might be the last thing some people might predict. Nevertheless his advice is timeless as the man behind the monitor. Often I feel like a judge listening to one of his well argued cases. Others, I feel like a son listening to just a few choice words from dad. Better yet, I feel like one of his students listening to one of his profound lectures which require no “reply.” Incidentally, he has sort of become a de facto teacher for me in many respects. These are his lessons.

My father has given me a lot of encouragement and advice throughout the years, most of it solicited and most recently over the computer. A decade ago he would never even have even considered using such impersonal correspondence. Amidst piles and piles of not filed yet organized-by his standards- documents, he was unable to comprehend anything beyond turning on his computer and using the word processor which by the way he has told me would have reduced his workload immensely with footnoting when he was in college using a typewriter. One day, a colleague of his must have introduced him to this phenomenon of emailing which he insists must be done IN ALL CAPS. My sisters and I tell him that in the cyber world that symbolizes “yelling,” but he refuses to give in. Sometimes I think it’s just because he is really that enthusiastic all of the time and then others I think maybe he’s just too lazy to hit the caps lock button and/or pay attention to grammar.

EMAIL: NOW SEND THIS TO 11 PEOPLE WITHIN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES

Only up until a few years ago, did he actually stop overbearing all of us with forwards. Some might think of it naiveté or flat out ignorance but I knew of the problem as a syndrome I call “honest Jim.” The man truly believed the person who wrote “Now send this to 11 people within the next 5 minutes.” Out of respect to the karma gods he made sure we would find bliss. These forwards came from the same guy who goes down in history as the worst “Malarkey” player known to man. The object of the game is to convince others that you know the definition of the word given by lying. Good ole’ honest Jim never did get past the first word of his ill-derived sentence before breaking up in hysteric laughter. Needless to say, we don’t play that game anymore, despite the fact that half of the fun was just watching him try to save face. My younger sister by the way is great at it…

EMAIL: YOU ARE TAKING FULL ADVANTAGE OF THE COLLEGE EXPERIENCE AND ARE GETTING THE KIND OF EXPERIENCES THAT WILL SERVE YOU WELL.

Since I went away to college, I found myself in front of the computer more hours than I care to admit to. In the middle of my studying, web surfing and chatting with my roommate who would often be in the same room as me, I also found time to email my Dad on a constant basis. Boy, was I glad I did. I’ve never stopped since.

Calling my dad was easy and as much as hearing his voice meant the world to me, I always felt like I was taking up too much of his time. Now, being so far away from home with the time difference and all, I find the task even harder to keep track of. Once and a while I’ll get the occasional letter except even then I object. His letters usually contain bills that have been inadvertently forwarded back home or news articles highlighting my friends accomplishments (yellow highlighter included). Thankfully, he leaves out the friends in the police logs. Whatever is inside these most of the time meaningless envelopes, the most important is written on a small tear away of legal paper, reading “Love you much….Dad.”

EMAIL: YOUR GRANDFATHER WOULD HAVE BEEN VERY PROUD SEEING YOU IN YOUR UNIFORM.

He insists of scribbling in big bold letters as if forever frozen in an email “LT JOSHUA CARROLL, USAF,” across the envelop. It used to embarrass me, not because his penmanship was so childlike that it looked like my nephew wrote it and because it was so illegible that it ran a close second to his computer skills, but rather due to the pride that I know he feels writing every bit of that line. I haven’t told him that the title is completely unnecessary yet and I’ll probably wait until he and my grandmother are in the same room so that I can tell them both “thanks but no thanks.”

Visits from Dad are the greatest. I can barely resist showing him off to my friends. Over the years, I’ve become much more humble but have substituted that self envy with an infatuation of my hero. (To those who read my blog, you can attest to the several references in each post…he’s simply what brings me my inspiration). When he first drove me to college for the first time with my stuff in the bed of his big red truck and my mom and I packed like sardines in the front cab, I could recall wishing both he and my Mom could somehow find something useful to study and stay in my dorm room with me. Not only would my dad be a useful editor for papers I thought but with my mom cooking and cleaning…why I might be the most popular kid on campus.

As we entered, I was one of about 100 or so people arriving that day since I had decided to play football. I remember my identity crisis as I packed my Deion-like doo rag but sided against pulling it out of my gym bag once I looked around and saw the guys that I’d be playing with (black guys more worthy and seasoned in doing so). I was indeed out of my element asking myself “what the hell did you get yourself into,” as my 250 pound roommate just stared at me while probably asking himself if I had mistaken football camp with computer camp. In any event, my mom fussed around insisting I put everything away while asking me inappropriate questions like “did you pack enough underwear,” and when I hesitated with my reply of “yes,” she demanded that I pull them out to show her. Meanwhile my dad acted as the savior as I remember him saying “it’s time to go now mom,” with such certitude as if to tell me that it was all up to me, my decisions, actions and consequences. He had done his job raising me, he was confident and proud. My mom looked up from stowing away the soda we had just bought from Wal-Mart and obliged.

EMAIL: SEE YOU ON SATURDAY….GOOD LUCK AND TELL BJ I SAID HI!

I would see my dad often that year and the following 3 years after that. Every Saturday he was committed to coming to every game, home or away. His fandom prompted a question from several of the guys one game in mid October with sleet and rain pounding the field with few in the stands willing to subject themselves to the harsh conditions, “whose that whacky guy who rode his motorcycle all the out here in the pouring rain?” “Oh, that’s just my dad,” I replied shyly. With no resemblance, some of my sideline buddies chuckled until my roommate saved me and said “no that really is, he comes to all of the games.”

Yes, rain or even snow from NH to Long Island and beyond, my father was a faithful fan of the guy who saw less playing time than the little kid that they recruit before games that runs on the field to grab the tee after kickoff. I once told him how much it meant to me for him to be there, to which he simply replied “trust me those games mean much more to me.” He would later tell me once I played my last game that he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with himself on Saturday afternoons since he so looked forward to those fall drives to my campus and beyond. I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I couldn’t have had him cheer for me more. Instead, he cheered for my friends and the team. He kept up with the happenings around the league and was so thrilled that I had befriended some of his favorite players. I once took him to hear Chris Matthews speak (they went to Holy Cross together) and after my friend who was doing work study pulled our ticket as we walked in, my dad asked if that was who he thought that was. He told me that he loved watching him play. At that moment I couldn’t have been more happy for my dad or my friend.

Lots of people got to know my dad either from him willing to sit next to anybody (girlfriends, drunken friends/fans, parents, you name it). By my senior year you could hear people yelling from across the field after games “Hey Mr. Carroll!!!” I readily admit he overshadows me and even during my football career he seemed to take more of the spotlight. Towards the last home games he would bring my nephew to sit alongside him. I could hear “83! 83! (pronounced eightee free, eightee free). After the game he always wanted to wear my helmet and since I figured someone ought to have that privilege for that day, I would give him that and my shoulder pads as well. I couldn’t help but watch my dad’s eyes as he looked at him almost as if imagining that one day he’d be able to go back and see him play.

*This post is part of an undetermined series dedicated to this particular topic. (To be continued...)

Wars of our Fathers: A Generation Gap

2008-02-18T02:07:00.006-10:00

We are a country whose generations are defined by war. For my Grandfather it was World War II, my father, Vietnam and for me, Iraq. The pulse of our nation can be categorized not so much by domestic policy but rather the endeavors we pursue outside of our own borders. These wars have a profound influence that contributes to generational attitudes and that sets the stage for our American identity.

My grandfather was a pilot. He taught Army Air Corps pilots in World War II. If not for a terrible plane crash which took half of his foot, he would have been a fighter pilot. My father on the other hand was trained as a combat engineer in the Army, and would later stay in the reserves as a cook. Although their decision to serve differed from two extremes, their obligations of duty and country were identical.

Most in my grandfather’s generation answered President Roosevelt’s call to service freely and voluntarily. One in five eligible men raised their hands to service. The country at the time truly rallied around the flag and the cause of overcoming global tyranny. My father’s generation on the other hand faced involuntary service through the draft board. The US Army during Vietnam was largely conscripts of men who were not professional soldiers and consisted of many who flat out opposed war. My father was dealt a bad hand. His draft card number was so low; it would have been inevitably called. Rather then waiting for what would have been the obvious, he enlisted. He went from protesting war on his college campus to now being sent to prosecute it.

My father’s experience with the Army was not all bad. However, it was an obligation that he would rather not have accepted. Today he often wryly remarks that he’s not quite sure how my brother and I got our crazy ideas to join the service, since we surely didn’t get it from him. And despite his opposition to certain wars and his inclination towards peace, he still praises the unique nature of our constitution that allows us to speak out against war and at the same time accept the responsibility of perhaps having to die for those same beliefs. Indeed my father sees this country with the same optimism as he did while protesting at Holy Cross, serving in the Army and now at present time. I don’t know what kind of soldier my dad was but knowing the man I know him to be, I can almost be certain he served admirably. If his tips for boot shining and bed making before I left for my own boot camp in the summer of 2003 were any indication, than I suppose there’s only more reason to believe that the system of transforming civilians to leaders in the US Army is the best in the world.

World War II was a shining moment in America’s history which produced an appropriate mystique about the ones we now consider “the greatest generation.” Great they were, and greatness they preserved. WWII proved to the world that the United States of America was unwilling to give into oppression and would fight at all cost to defend freedom. It was the ideal of freedom that resonates with so many of us even today. In the face of evil, I can look at the history books with pride, knowing that America was on the right side of history just as I can look to my family albums knowing that my Grandfather did not hesitate to answer a call to service.

Vietnam was much different. It represented a time of uneasiness about the prospects of forcing America’s ideals on a country that did not appear to be taking well to our involvement. There was much dissent about whether or not we should have been there. On the evening news body bags were shown flying in from cargo planes (today they are prohibited). The body count on the other hand was manufactured while enemy deaths were inflated as to pander towards public opinion. In a drastic change since the last major war, our government could not be trusted. Protestors across the country on major college campuses to small town streets asked for a stop to the war, all the while insulting the immeasurable contributions of personal sacrifice that thousands of uniformed men returning from war had made. In retrospect, it was a time to be proud of the American people to put an stop to an endless war and to also be disgusted by the manner in which they had ostracized the courageous men (many who did not willingly go) who had carried out the orders of their government.

That leaves us with Iraq and the so-called “Global war on Terror,” whose conclusion may never be answered by my generation. At times I shake my head wondering how we went from there to here. How the similarities in every war are unmistakable and how the images of our successes and failures resonate with us for our entire lives. I think back to 2003 as I watched our tanks roll through Baghdad with ease as I thought to myself that this had all but seemed too effortless. I remember my former roommate missing out a year of college to what he jokingly refers to as his “semester abroad program in Iraq,” and wondering on a constant basis whether he was safe. I also often wonder if those from the previous wars felt the same anxiety, helplessness at times and fear.

There have been a lot of comparisons between Vietnam and Iraq. I once strongly debated this notion with my father through a vehement email exchange while I was in college and studying the two closely in ROTC. No matter how hard I tried to convince my father to see differently, there was always this feeling of inadequacy in my argument, for I had not been to war and I had not seen the effects of it like my father. Nor did I have to bury classmates and go through the rest of my life wondering “what if things had been different.” My father is an adjunct professor who often talks about the Vietnam War to his students. He remarks that “it might as well be the Civil war to these kids,” since they seem so removed from the history pages they read. In his eyes, I was at the time one of his students.

Neither my grandfather nor father ever considered themselves veterans. To me, as an active duty servicemember, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that either once my time is up. There is something very humbling about making the distinction between those who fought on the front lines with bullets flying directly at them and those who did not. There is for me-and perhaps like my father- a feeling of “I could have done more.” Yes, I think I’ll walk away knowing 100% that I fulfilled my commitment but will always fall short of using the V word. I’ll reserve that for the real heroes who I so dedicate this blog to in the first place.

And so, fast forward to 2008 where protestors and hawks have not clashed so much in open rallies but in debates. Both the Republicans and Democrats have become mere demagogues unwilling to accept the realities of either side’s truisms. For instance, the surge is clearly working as I type this in terms of a decrease sectarian violence and casualties, a fact the Democrats are unwilling to accept. At times it seems as though they almost want Iraq to fail as to reinforce their point that it had been “wrong all along.” I can’t help but think that for some in the Democratic Party, when the death toll rises, there are those who almost become excited since this can be more fuel to their argument.

The Republicans aren’t any better though. They have failed to state the benchmarks of success and even when they do, they rewrite them as soon as a new update arises. Sure it’s easy to say the surge is working but by what standard? Are the decreases in US deaths alone prime indicators of success? How do we measure it?

So is it that my generation is unable to capture victory like my grandfather’s or end a war like my fathers? Perhaps not. Maybe the inability to get straight forward results like wars past is not so much a reflection of our generations unwillingness but instead simply of our unknowingness. There appears to be a generational gap between my generation and generations before. The lessons learned, the mistakes, the failures are some how never translated to our current crisis. Instead, we start from scratch by using the blundered old models to our new problems. We erase history or put our own spin and interpretation so that it fits the neat little policy that we set forth. It has left us with doubt in our country’s integrity, competency and virtue.

My generation might constantly be reminded of our 9/11 roots and there is no refuting this. Still, I don’t know if it defines what we are. We aren’t like WWII, all volunteers. The back-door draft of the National Guard and the stop loss program are constant reminders to us. Then again, we aren’t all protestors either and those who do are the rehabilitated types who put our soldiers first. We haven’t won the GWOT nor do I think there will ever be a peace treaty to confirm victory. We are as I have so ineloquently concluded a combination of our WWII/Vietnam heritage. Some of us did step forward in a time of uncertainty to answer the call to service and still some stayed back to protest. Some of us see the toppling of Saddam’s government was a success and some of us think it only created more instability.

I suppose a lot of the answers we seek will have to be found out on our own as we seek to construct our own identity. And still, I think some of these questions that we ask might just as easily be found from our predecessors who have been down many of the roads that we continue down today. Maybe all we really need to do is talk to our fathers.

Possibilities

2008-02-11T17:49:00.000-10:00

Last night I rented "Bobby," and although the cast was star studded, for whatever reason it was unable to break through in the box office. It was not the shortage of ticket sales that I was thinking about however, but instead the striking similarities of two seemingly young, optimistic, Senators who challenged a nation divided to put aside differences and embrace hope.

For those of us who did not live through the 60s, I suppose it'd be hard for us to relate. There were no plasma screen tvs, broadband internet connections, or even starbucks at every corner. What did transcend our differences were the challenges that our parent's generation faced and the struggles that we endure today.

If you were to ask my father how he got his inspiration, he would undoubtedly take you back to 1968 and the day that Bobby Kennedy was shot. He could tell you what he wore, how he reacted and how that tragic date represented the start of his life to see that those ideals did not die with that particular young man that year but were passed on as beacons of hope for the future.

June 4th, 1968 is a day that most baby boomers like my dad will never forget. For many it was a moment in history where millions around the world mourned a man not for his actions but his power with words. While he left behind his wife and family, he also raised a legacy for equality among men, shared responsibility, fairness, justice and peace among nations. And although I cannot claim I knew Bobby Kennedy anymore than I know the candidates today or anymore than Dan Quayle so inadaquetly knew his brother, I can without question see the impact that he had. His torch was one picked up during my father's generation and carried through to ours. It was a message of tearing down divisions in our society and raising the collective conscience of us all. 40 years later that message is still being received.

40 years later this nation is still at war, where there is a candidate trying to offer a better solution of peace. 40 years later there are crowds of people following a man who is the embodiment of the America that Robert F. Kennedy so courageously dreamed of. 40 years later a man with little experience in Washington, has decided that he has the audacity to run for office.
It is a great coincidence that these generations merge at a time such as this where a country has been taken over by the greed of a few. That our nation is at the mercy of the leadership of the weak and our voice has all but fallen on deaf ears.

Today Obama is my Bobby Kennedy, whether he wants to be or not. To me he represents the real possibiliy of change for the better. His vision of America is one that I want to live in and rather than just sit back and observe, his voice has called me to action. I can't claim to have been inspired by Bobby Kennedy since it was not my generation that he was speaking to. I do hold stake in Barack Obama's words though and the strength of character of the man that stands behind them.

There are some that doubt the power of words and refuse to see their impact. These same people are the ones that didn't believe blacks and whites could sit at the same dining room table together and break bread. They are the same naysayers who refuse to understand that diversity is not something that weakens us but which gives this nation its character. They are the cowards who believe war is the answer to perceived political necessity and that our freedom of speech should not be said aloud.

The weight of millions of people's hope rests on the shoulders of this Senator who tells us that the Moses generation in America believed in the mantra of "yes we can." His words tell us that now it is the Joshua generation that must reach the promised land. His words tell us that the rhetoric of fear and hate do not lift and inspire a nation, but inevitably bring it down. His themes are words of promise, of relevance and conviction. They are however, just words.

In his eulogy, Bobby's brother Ted Kennedy remarked, "My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it." To think that a sensibility so seemingly simple could have shaped a nation is remarkable, to think that so many refused to seek out such beliefs is unfathomable.

The point is that no matter if Senator Obama does come out to be our next President of the United States or not, understand that his message like Bobby's was heard and will continue hereafter. The words that he has left for the "Joshua" generation are words that I will one day repeat to my children and grandchildren. This day, I am inspired. I should be so lucky.

Therefore, I urge you to listen to his words, to Bobby's words and then just imagine the possibilities.

My Confessions

2008-02-08T16:22:00.000-10:00

· I don’t know the difference between a carburetor and an alternator. I rely on the symbols from my dashboard to light up when I turn on my car. Unless the job requires adding windshield wiper fluid, the hood of my car stays shut.

· I’ll be the first to admit that megabytes, terabytes and gigabytes really don’t mean that much to me. I turn on my computer and pray that it doesn’t crash. That reminds me, any of you computer gurus?

· I don’t know the difference between a D flat and an A sharp. I’m a top 40 guy all the way. If it’s pop sounding, put on the record. Stevie Wonder, just give me some Stevie Wonder!

· I can’t tell Maple or Oak apart. I’ve made it this far right? Oops, knock on wood.

· What function does the cerebral cortex serve again? I forget. I’ll study that if I ever get on Jeopardy.

· Certiorari, Amicus curiae, Habeas Corpus. Tell me why everything in law has to be in Latin again? I’m sure if I ever get locked up I can ask my dad.

· I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference among Jesuits, Augustinians, Benedictines, Dominicans, Franciscans or Xavarians for that matter. By the way, I went to an Augustinian school. They all wear hoods right?

· Alkali metals, halogens, noble gases? Point me in the direction of the periodic table. Is it still color coded?

· I don’t know if I could locate Kazakhstan on the map. Or distinguish it from Kyrgyzstan. Did I spell that correctly? Wait, which country was Borat from?

· I couldn’t tell you much about the Persian Empire, well outside of the movie 300 anyways. That sounds like a Google search to me!

· Aristotle, Plato, Kant, Hobbes. How did I remember Hobbes?

· I don’t know which Chinese language is most prevalent, Mandarin or Cantonese. Ask me to speak either?…Are you crazy! They learn English growing up anyways I’m told.

· I even always mix up the battles of Iwo Jima and Midway and I’m in the military for goodness sake!

Ok, so I don’t know much. In this day in age, I am so thankful for Wikipedia for fostering my curiosities of adult education and for pretty much everything else under the sun that I was supposed to learn in school but brain dumped.

I’ll readily admit that my lack of knowledge is half ignorance. There are certain things like quantum mechanics, binary oppositions or essentialism that I may never comprehend nor want to. The truth is that 99% of what I’m told, I believe. That is because I outsource everything and expect experts to know and do their jobs. Car breaks down? Mechanic. Feel sick? Doctor. Floor repair? Carpenter.

There are only so many books you can read in the self-help, “how to” section of Barnes & Noble.
In today’s world, I rely on everybody else to keep me on pace. I don’t have the time or inclination to research everything from what shoes to buy to which road to take coming home from work. The reality is that even the information I get is outsourced. I turn on the news and trust that the stuff being told me is real. Sure, there are thousands of mediums among TV, print and the internet. I can’t visit them all though, so when it comes to consistency, well of course I’m going to ride horses.

One thing I do not outsource though are my morals, values and ideals. I just cannot allow these seemingly soft, intangible abstracts to be compromised by media, friends or anybody else. Every day that I turn on the news I hear reporters trying to either persuade or lecture me. I walk away unshaken. Sure I change positions occasionally. I’m a sucker for a compassionate argument and given certain facts that I didn’t know before, I’m more than willing to see the “other perspective.” Heck, I enjoy playing devil’s advocate myself and in the process might even question my own feelings on the matter.

My core principles are unchanged though. These ideals passed on to me and learned from experience along the way are just as useful to me as a monkey wrench in a tool box. I use these values as part of my judgment in practically everything I do. When I pass a car broken down on the side of the road, do I stop? If an older lady is behind me, do I wait and hold the door open for them? My life is far from the epic adventure that I’d like it to be. I can’t surf waves, skydive from 16,000ft or drive the Audubon every day. All I can do is listen to my conscience and hope I’m always doing the right thing.

Once and a while when I’m with my volunteering my time, I almost begin to think that “yes, I am doing one thing right today.” For all of those other times, I just pray for forgiveness.

By, the way…sorry for the fragments.

A Case for Immigration

2008-02-05T01:16:00.001-10:00

I recently revisited John Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath. At the time when I first read it in High School, I failed to identify myself with any of the characters. After all, as a New Englander in the 21st century, what did I have in common with a family of the Great Depression, escaping famine and migrating west for a better life? Then, as I read the story with fresh eyes and poured through the pages like a man seeking truth in the bible, it finally dawned on me; the prejudice against the Joad’s had nothing to do with skin color, ethnicity or nationality but fear…fear of something being different.

Last week I sent out a position paper concerning Immigration to many of the readers of this blog. After finishing The Grapes of Wrath, I have decided to post it for its newfound relevance in my argument. While some of you might dispute my comparison of migrants and immigrants, I would argue their plights are much the same. Whether the Joad’s were “Okies or Dagos/Chinks/Kikes/Niggers or Spics, the bottom line was that they were not welcome where they went. The story of the Joad family is as much my family’s story as any. I would ask you to go back and read this novel, go back and listen to your ancestors. I am quite sure you will find many similarities.

Above all, no matter which side you stand on along the imaginary fence that separates “us,” from “them,” do not forget that we are all people. Immigrants are people, they deserve their dignity, let’s treat them with such. At the very least, they deserve our respect, for their voyage towards a better life here in America is admirable.

My dad’s sole advice to me growing up had always been “whatever you do in life, do it with compassion.” As I think about that last word and my feeble attempts to implement that mantra, I often ask myself if other parents offered the same suggestions to their kids. The more I hear the debate of immigration from the presidential candidates, the less I think that message was ever received.

Two weeks ago we celebrated a man whose very life was about the topic that my dad hammered into me. My lone tradition that day has been to go back and read his march on Washington “I have a dream speech” from 1963. The words said 20 some odd years before my birthday are as relevant to me now as they were back then. Simply put, like the bugle played during taps, they give me the chills, goose bumps or whatever it is you call it when the feeling you get is all too real to even fathom. As a Christian, I’d like to think that Dr. King is still speaking to us on issues such as immigration and pray that the presidential candidates shut up long enough to hear him out. I have never been one to state opinions for others, although if forced to speculate, I’d like to think that Dr. King would welcome any and all who journeyed towards the land of opportunity with open arms.

Dr. King talked vehemently about his dream. This vision did not begin nor end with him. This vision lives on through ever immigrant whose hope is embodied in his or her destination. After all, at the heart of every immigrants experience is a dream.

So many of you might be thinking, “So what’s your point Josh?” My point is that the debate on immigration while relevant is one without compassion. It is a debate more so on xenophobia than the strain on the economy or working class citizens. It is on par with the notion that “English should be the official language of the United States.” This suggestion is beyond ignorant and is less subtle than policy makers might assume. It directly targets Hispanics. As I recall reading, The Italians, Germans, etc…all spoke in their native tongues while living in their boroughs and sections of America.

Ok, let me pause. Some of you might be thinking (and yes I am very conscious of what others think) “Josh you were adopted, you’re Korean, of course you think this way.” Believe it or not, this issue is not personal in that sense, nor are others such as abortion. In my humble opinion, this issue ought not to even be partisan. In fact in both instances, I have been able to distance myself from the issue and look at it from a broader perspective whether it is from some 34 year old Mexican’s shoes standing at the border with his family, $20 in his pockets and a prayer or as a 17 year old girl who is pregnant. This issue is important to me because it is being misrepresented and even those who might think similarly to me are disingenuous at best.

The best way that I can make this argument is to tell you the story of two American heroes and their ties to a Wall.

As soon as the Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman, General Peter Pace said goodbye to the uniform he wore for all of his adult life, he made a trip to the Vietnam Memorial where he placed the stars which he had just retired on a index card and leaned it up against the name on the wall of a fallen comrade that read “these are not mine, these are yours,” and walked off without fanfare. That name was that of Lcpl Guido Farinaro. From the day that he lost that first man in his platoon, he vowed to stay in to honor his sacrifice. Forty years later, he still felt indebted.

If General Pace has an opinion on immigration, he’ll probably keep it to himself, fair enough. However, another man who fought in that same war and who happens to be running for President has made his opinion heard to the dislike of many in his party. John McCain often tells those who question his immigration policy to do go to the Vietnam Memorial and read the names on that wall. Rhetorically, he mentions that many of those names are Hispanic. Don’t tell him that Hispanics don’t sacrifice for our way of life.

John McCain is a border state Senator who must answer to his constituents on immigration every election. Why is it then that he favors a path to citizenship immigration policy that many critics have proclaimed as “amnesty to illegals?” My answer to that question is personal this time and comes from my experience in which I lived in San Angelo, Texas for a year.

I had never seen a bigger melting pot of people than I had in Texas. Sure, I had been to the big cities but in those places I saw less interaction among the populace and more segregation. In Texas, I’d ride horses on ranches owned by Hispanics with white employees and vice versa. I saw a mutual respect between the two groups that I wasn’t expecting. In fact, I pictured less tolerance and more bigotry to be honest. But to my surprise I saw one ton trucks with gun racks owned by Hispanics and whites, both of which wore cowboy boots and 10 gallon cowboy hats. Sure, there were the fair share of confederate flags and less inclusive groups around town, but beyond the anomalies there was an appreciation for what all workers in San Angelo had to offer. And yes, they all worked.

Another politician who has gone “against the tide,” in terms of his political party’s position happens to be our President. For all of the things that some may rebuke him for, I think in terms of immigration, he has allowed his compassion to fuel his policy. It may seem odd that I’ve given examples of two Republicans (soon to be three before this post is over). However, I mention these men and their affiliations because as I said, this issue crosses party lines. President Bush was a former border state Governor, who for the same reasons aforementioned, has separated himself from the “party line.” And his beliefs don’t end with himself but extend to his family as well. From his Hispanic nephew, to his brother JEB who had a phenomenal reputation among Hispanics in his governed state of Florida and even speaks fluent Spanish, so says my girlfriend.

This more compassionate immigration policy has less to with politics and votes than it does with what I would like to believe a deeper appreciation of the diversity that Spanish speaking people bring to this country. The immigrants are and have always been the back bone of the working force of this nation. Our economy would simply not flourish without these people working on our farms and manufacturing plants.

Anti-immigrant policymakers would have you believe that they are not racist and that they are merely protecting the American family and the American worker. They might even try to persuade you into thinking that their term immigrant is not synonymous with “Hispanics.” The truth of the matter is that Hispanics come to the US to work and Border States understand their need to fill voids in the job market. The truth is that many illegal’s are not criminals and those that are belong to gangs. Therefore, common-sense logic would be to go after gang’s right?

This post is getting long and for the most part I’m preaching to the choir; this I know. Nevertheless, I have to make my point for no other reason than because it weighs so deeply on my conscience and I hate sitting on the sidelines during a debate. America might be getting closer to Dr. King’s dream of uniting blacks and whites but perhaps farther from being the all inclusive country that America is destined to become. I don’t suggest that we open up the gates to allow every last person who wants to become a US citizen in. But on the same token, I can’t help but feel empathetic for those who pack up everything and risk it all just for the shot at the American Dream that Dr. King envisioned. Have we marginalized the dream to only mean for blacks and not Hispanics or not Muslims, Hindus, Asians, Frenchmen?!

I would like to believe that as the world leader that we still tend to hold some sort of influence despite our mishaps in foreign policy. I want to believe that we always feel as though we owe it to ourselves and to this country’s standards to pay our blessings forward to the next generation. The more we offer up policies depicting walls between countries, ID cards and National languages, the farther we stray from the ideals instilled in the document we call our “declaration of independence,” which was written by those who dared to flee from their own country trading for the very ideals (democracy) which we are said to be promoting in all parts of the world. Therefore, if we find it so necessary to enforce this principle on other nations to be more in our likeness why would we in turn, reject people who are trying to enter this country for the actual thing we impose?

Immigrants create competition for jobs, even at the cost of lower wages. Competition is what drives capitalism and free markets; it almost seems un-American to make the counter argument. They don’t explicitly ask for anything (healthcare, social security et al). Instead, they go about their business, trying to fly under the radar so that the government doesn’t catch on. They even go well below the speed limit as to not get a ticket. Yet we call them criminals.

Theodore Roosevelt was a great President. I would recommend people read Lion in the White House. Although his stance on an all inclusive immigration policy was questionable to many historians, I would at the very least call them compassionate. Anyways, the reason why I mention him is not because of his policies on immigration but rather a quote which I believe gives deeper insight into what he actually thought about American(s) and how we ought to think of ourselves.

“There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism. When I refer to hyphenated Americans, I do not refer to naturalized Americans. Some of the very best Americans I have ever known were naturalized Americans, Americans born abroad. But a hyphenated American is not an American at all. This is just as true of the man who puts “native” before the hyphen as of the man who puts German or Irish or English or French before the hyphen. Americanism is a matter of the spirit and of the soul. Our allegiance must be purely to the United States. We must unsparingly condemn any man who holds any other allegiance. But if he is heartily and singly loyal to this Republic, then no matter where he was born, he is just as good an American as any one else. “

Spoiled

2008-02-03T18:56:00.000-10:00

*Disclaimer: If you are a die hard Patriots fan and do not wish to relive the last heart breaking moments of Super Bowl XLII than please do not read. You are liable to throw up.

The play clock hung at :01 second as if to taunt Patriot Nation for the 21 straight weeks of boasting it had done about its undefeated season. The outcome was unavoidable and just as quickly as I turned the television on right as I woke up, I reached for that remote, head down and shut the celebration off.

I couldn’t bring myself to make that concession call to my NY Giant friends. I almost felt like Al Gore after the 2000 Presidential election, except in this instance, I wasn’t afforded a recount.

I drove my little brother home in silence, no radio, no conversation, just my thoughts. I had initially invited him over to muster up any remaining good karma that I could get out of him. Shameless right?

The day replayed over in my head as I crept down low in my seat as if to avoid any hecklers at the intersections. While not completely embarrassed of the Asante Samuel jersey that I had worn religiously throughout the playoffs, I was indeed uncomfortable. I immediately began to wonder if I had done all of my Sunday rituals (and sorry God, I do not mean church).

Grey NE Undershirt
Asante Samuel Jersey
Red, White and Blue AFC Championship blanket
Call BJ for Pre-game analysis and predictions
Call family to find out where they are watching the game for situational awareness
Roundtable Pizza (must be different order from previous week)
Text nasty comment about Bruschi missing tackles before halftime to Luke
Pick up little brother for good luck and keep him happy

Ok I was being superstitious. But didn't I have a right to be? Were the Patriots not 18-0 and on the brink of capping off the most cherished season in NFL history? I wasn’t used to the feeling of anger, disappointment and regret. My thoughts shifted to the players of the Patriots and veterans like Randy Moss and Junior Seau who had contributed so much and came up shy of tasting the fruits of their labors.

It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Not after all that we had been through (the critics, spygate, flirting with perfection). I mean I wish I could have said that I was as calm under pressure as Tom Brady appeared even with :10 seconds left. The truth was that I was restless. I broke character (Coach Belichick would have been disappointed); I behaved like a Tiger held captive in a zoo and released into the wild. I was out of my element and panicking. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a caveman. I had seen Mr. Brady manufacturer comebacks over the years, but just not of this magnitude. As the last pass on 4th of 20 hit the ground, so too did my knees. I looked back at my little brother in silence as if to say that I had let him down. I was speechless (yes, me, the Patriot fan!) I realized for once that we were not going to have the last words on the podium, or the Championship parade. I wasn’t going to see Tom’s handsome face look into the camera and say “I’m going to Disney World.” Instead, I got up and turned off the celebration. My little brother knew it was time to go home. He followed me out the door.

I’ve never liked being at the top. I’d much rather be the comeback kid rising from adversity. I prefer David over Goliath and the underdog versus the favorite any day. Perhaps that is why a piece of me while resentful, almost feels happy for the Giants. They had been the physical manifestation of everything that I believed in. I know the Manning family is proud at this moment. And while I haven’t been able to bring myself to turn the TV back on to see whether or not Eli won the MVP, I know he probably deserved it.

Contriving this last line here has taken a considerable amount of my time. In a sense, I almost don’t want to stop this post as it will symbolize the end for me and an acceptance of defeat. How do I wrap up a season that was so enjoyable to watch up until the last second without feeling like a loser? I guess I’ll end it by extending congratulations to NY Giants fans and an acknowledgment of how imperfect the end can be.

Prison Break

2008-02-01T13:33:00.000-10:00

When Michael Vick finally walks out of federal prison after serving his 23 month long sentence, he will be greeted largely by distrustful eyes and critical reporters from all facets of the media. Although the fate of his NFL career will hinge on Commissioner Roger Goodell’s evaluation, Vick’s future will still be head and shoulders above the rest of the criminals who leave thereafter. Michael Vick will be 28 years old by the time he is out of prison. He will be able to look forward to his multi-million dollar mansion, television interviews and thousands of still adoring fans. His future while not certain, will be brighter than the hundreds of others who served similar sentences and are released that same day.

The fact is that over 65% of persons released from Federal or State prisons will be rearrested for a felony or serious misdemeanor within 3 years. Based on the findings from a 1994 study, of the 272,111 offenders discharged that year, the combined total of arrests over their recorded careers totaled nearly 4,877,000. That figure averages out to 18 arrests per person. Still convinced our judicial system works?

I suppose I should clarify myself before I begin to sound like an advocate for criminal behavior. First off, I believe in the judicial process. It’s a belief that my father had instilled in me as I grew up watching him prosecute and later defend criminals. I watched in disbelief at times as I would read in the newspaper of him defending a rapist or child abuser. I wondered how a man with such honor who had spent so many years as a prosecutor could go on the other side and defend such actions with the same conviction.

It was not until he explained the origins of our judicial system and the laws that govern us that I truly began to understand the purpose that he served and how our society needed people like my father. Although unpopular at times, he would insist that all persons had the right to a fair trial, and that our law was based on the tenets of innocence until proven guilty. He used terms like due process, fairness and impartiality which to an outsider or first time criminal, might not sound like much, to him though, they were the hallmarks of justice .It is perhaps the reason why he chose to accept so many pro bono cases and defended the lowliest forms of society when very few would come to their defense.

My father molded my “judicial education,” and while I may not have a fancy law degree that says I am part of the establishment, I can read and comprehend the overwhelming statistics that are at our disposal to say that our prison system does not work.

The problem starts at sentencing. There is so much emphasis by our judges and legislatures to “talk tough,” that they are completely missing the point. The whole purpose of prisons should be to rehabilitate those who have committed crimes so that they can get out and become productive members of society. Instead, prisons have become de facto instruments of recidivism. They have failed to serve the purpose they were set out to do.

Let me be clear. I want all criminals who are convicted of a crime to pay their dues. But don’t think I’m going to allow a little rhetoric like “soft on crime,” scare me into thinking that my heart is not in the right place. In our judicial system there ought to be mechanisms in place to not only protect the victim but to also rehabilitate the criminal so that such acts do not happen again. Otherwise, there serves no purpose of having criminals rot in a prison cell that costs taxpayers money. ... (That’s another blog altogether).

Pundits don’t talk about our prisons or prisoners because they are too busy distracting us from the real problems. They will have us believe that immigration is invading the very fabric of our nation when in fact it has been the pillar of our strength. Politicians ignore what goes on behind bars because as long as these criminals stay behind bars (no matter how many times they continue to go back), they are no longer a problem. Legislatures have completely wiped themselves clean of the quandaries that face our prison system, because after all who would want to help a convicted felon? In fact, one could even say this issue has become modern day taboo.

There are certain crimes that I have no tolerance for, and for those serving life sentences, this blog need not apply. However, for those criminals convicted of non-violent crimes, I think we ought to consider them in the equation not only for their benefit but for our society as well.

Many of you might not be as sympathetic as I am and if you feel the urge to refute any of these broad proposals then please do. But before you begin to wonder why I chose this topic and why I am defending criminals, first take a look at these lopsided numbers based on demographics alone.

Characteristics of jail inmates

The prevalence of imprisonment in 2001 was higher for
--black males (16.6%) and Hispanic males (7.7%) than for white males (2.6%)

Lifetime chances of a person going to prison are higher for
--Men (11.3%) than for women (1.8%)
--Blacks (18.6%) and Hispanics (10%) than for whites (3.4%)

--Based on current rates of first incarceration, an estimated 32% of black males will enter State or Federal prison during their lifetime, compared to 17% of Hispanic males and 5.9% of white males.

--If recent incarceration rates remain unchanged, an estimated 1 of every 15 persons (6.6%) will serve time in a prison during their lifetime.

I’m not suggesting that law enforcement purposely targets blacks and Hispanics and that is the reason for the disproportions nor am I trying to scare anyone into thinking that we'll all be rounded up by the police in the near future. I’m saying that our prisons are a farce and rather than attempting to solve the crisis at the root, we wait until the problem happens again and again and again. Prisons are poorly funded, managed and supervised. A vision for correction of criminals is virtually non-existent. But don’t take my word for it; ask the criminals.

For the criminal who pays his debt to society and walks out of jail with no more than a bus pass in his back pocket and without a support system to rely on, the hope of ever making it in the real world is unlikely. What these prisoners need is the kind of vocational and secondary education that will land them a job when they get out. Half of them do not have a high school diploma; let’s give them a chance to get a GED. Many of them have families on the outside; let’s have parole officers do the legwork on job placement for when they get out. The statistics state that Blacks and Hispanics are more likely to win up in jail than Whites; let’s create out reach organizations at the grassroots level with an emphasis on mentorship. The solutions are not simple, we know this. They cost time and money. More than anything, they require people to get past the mindset that what we’re doing works.

Judges fail to use their position on the bench to be innovative. They are scared to act out of the benefit of both the criminal and victim in fear that they are not upholding judicial precedence. They refuse to accept anything but the status quo because “that’s the way it’s been done before.” The focus in our judicial system should be on rehabilitating criminals. To think that by simply putting them in a prison solves anything is not only disingenuous but unoriginal.

All I’m asking is for people to question whether or not the system is working. Every time I read the annual recidivism statistics, I fail to believe that we have the best methods in place. I believe in second chances, and rather than just saying it, I think it’s time for us to put our money where our mouth is and to put some substance into that statement. We need to fund prisons and create opportunities for criminals to be successful. Otherwise, we’re in for more of the same and if the current state is any indicator of our future, than the outlook doesn’t sound too good.

I’ll leave it to the always pertinent Winston Churchill for the last word on this one…”One of the most unfailing tests of a civilization lies in how a country treats its criminals.”

*All statistics were derived from http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/crimoff.htm#recidivism

Spare Change

2008-01-28T18:37:00.000-10:00

He checked his watch as he walked down the familiar strip to the ATM. He already knew what time it was but fidgety and uncomfortable, he insisted on pulling out his phone to glance at the screen as if he were expecting a call. Nevertheless, what did it matter right? Nothing that he was doing had a purpose, rather his collective acts were a series of rehearsed, intentional distractions that gave the young man a reason to avoid any bit of eye contact with the lonely homeless man who regularly solicited outside of the bodega. Ordinarily he would bring his Ipod and a pissed off face along with him so that he could pretend that he didn't hear the disgusting beggar asking for spare change. This time though, he relied squarely on his demeanor, which fortunately enough for him worked like a charm.

To add to the routine which he had down to a science, the young man even insidiously held his breath until he finally passed the filthy pan handler as if such an action prevented an inhaling of certain diseases circulating in the air. As he left the corner store with cash in hand, he quickly stashed the $80 in his pocket to be organized later in his wallet. His primary objective at this point was to avoid contact with the grubby old man who had been bothering both tourists and locals alike for years.

On the way back the young man had a safe passage thanks to a group of teenagers who unknowingly took a path closer to the wretched fellow which allowed him to tip toe right by the stinky bum while staying as close to the street as possible. Better to inhale the fumes from traffic was his logic than to take his chances on smelling a despicable mix of body odor and liquor.

Little did he know, this particular solicitor was much more astute and aware of his surroundings than the young man gave him credit for. He knew that every Friday night at around 6:00pm he could count on the "snotty kid," as he referred to him under his breath to walk by as he took out denominations of $20 bills from the ATM before he went out with his buddies to spend it on drinks. The old man knew not to expect the snotty kid to throw any money his way or even acknowledge him for that matter. In fact, every once and a while the old man would look up from his lowly position in society to give a greeting just to see if he could get a response. But each Friday night, like clockwork while the young man did his usual stroll to take out money, he would come up with creative ways to ignore the old man.

Sometimes when the young man walked home in a drunken stumble, the old man would see him in a distance. He knew by the level of impairment that the young man would be back, not the following Friday but probably the next night to take out more money to spend away on booze. This fact troubled the old man who had considered his corner spot near the grocery store as his territory for the last decade of his life. Each night he would watch the intoxicated kid staggering home from a night out at the bars and would think to himself, "Fuck, I have to deal with that little shit walking past here again tomorrow!"

Sound familiar?

Those of us who live in and around cities can attest to these awkward encounters all too often and know this story all too vividly. Beggars never catch us off guard, especially those of us who are creatures of habit and frequent the same stores. Still, it never seizes to amaze me as to how inconsistent and downright rude we can all be at times.

I suppose like most things I over analyze things to the point that I forget where I originally started from. That's just me. Some of us I'm sure don't give it much thought either way, whether a $1 is thrown in the hat or not. For me though, after a night out on the town, I usually go home and try to backtrack all of the encounters that I had with either friends or strangers. I think, was I polite? Did I tip the waitress enough? And yes, even with every confrontation with a homeless man I must relive the experience like a broken record until the following night while the results weigh heavily on my conscience.

Several months ago I heard a well argued sermon from my Priest during Sunday mass regarding offerings to the church. He made the point that we give upwards of 20% tip to complete strangers (wait staff) for dinner but so much less to God each Sunday. He broke down checks and visits to restaurants all the while making a peace offering to any waiters or waitresses in the audience. My immediate reaction to his sermon was that he was right. I was being cheap and that my $5 each Sunday was the equivalent of one beer at the bars. Then I went beyond that. I asked myself why my giving didn't go beyond church.

And so back I go to the beggars that ask for our money but who do not pay us any service for our contributions. Rather then wonder whether or not our money that we give to churches or non-profit organizations goes to the ones in need, I think we should look at giving to the homeless as an opportunity that guarantees that our money goes directly to the less fortunate (and yes they are less fortunate if they are begging).

We can call them nuisances, bottom feeders, lazy, alcoholics, worthless, or whatever series of adjectives that justifies the inhumane manner by which he treat them. Still, I never question how or why certain people got where they are. One could even say that the reverse is true in my case and that I advocate for their plight in order to justify more reasons for why I should continue to give.

So how do we come to our decision making? Is it ever just random? I would argue not. Why is it that we are so inconsistent in our giving in that one day we might give .50 cents and the next we completely ignore these strangers? My opinion is that we question where our money is going. At that initial encounter we look at them as we make our approach and inspect their worthiness. A thorough glance at everything from their shoes to their signs and handwriting is made and in a split second we make our best value judgment. All of this of course leads to a bigger question, who are we to judge?

Quite frankly, I'd rather be wrong and have the money that I give go towards booze or whatever vice we speculate about than not give and be wrong about my assumptions.

Economists say we might be in the early stages of a recession (oops I said it). And I know that most of us work very hard for every dollar that we have rightfully earned. However, at the end of the day we can still make a difference no matter how small that contribution may be. After all, for those of us fortunate to be able to connect onto the Internet and read this, what's a little bit of spare change anyways? Or maybe, just maybe the more appropriate question we all should answer is..."Can we even spare to change?"

Living without chopsticks

2008-01-26T18:25:00.000-10:00

There was a slight pause from conversation at the Japanese steakhouse as I politely asked the waitress who was walking towards the kitchen "Could I get a fork please?"

As I looked up after taking in my first bite of fried rice, I saw several sets of eyes upon me. Undeterred and comfortable of the use of my eating utensil, I reached for a swig of my Budweiser and washed down the remaining food in my mouth. Only after looking the table once over did I realize that my friends were all using chopsticks and drinking sake.

It was the sort of awkwardness you feel when people around you notice some stray food that happens to be stuck in your teeth but are weary of publicly embarrassing you. Realizing the position that I was putting my friends around me in, I stood up and sarcastically stated, "I know I'm breaking stereotypes here." Everyone around the table laughed, even the couple that was not in our group. I had escaped an uneasy situation with a joke once more by taking the first jab at myself before anyone else spoke up. Crisis averted.

Growing up in an all white suburban town was never difficult for me. I had always felt at home with the company that I surrounded myself with. Ask any of my friends from my hometown and almost all of them will tell you that I was their first and perhaps only Asian friend.

But is that truly who I am? I never have thought of myself as the "token," or a symbolic representation of asians manifested into a microcosm of society. I was raised by white parents, had all white friends and lived in an all white community. I didn't speak Korean, I had never been to Korea, I never ate Korean food and thus never learned to use chopsticks. In fact, the only thing that ever distinguished me as Korean were my physical characteristics. Even my name was white.

Most of my life was spent separating myself from that culture which I was oblivous to. When I was adopted my father made sure that part of my Korean name was left before I made my citizenship official. In fact, his remarks in my high school yearbook as a senior were "never be too proud and forget who you are or where you came from." Nevertheless, I never told many people what that middle name was and for a while I too would sometimes forget it ever existed.

I used to carry my ethnicity as a chip on my shoulder. Being different was too risky for me as I didn't want to set myself too far apart. When my friends would mistakingly use words that they had overheard on tv or from their parents like "gook or chink," I never called them out on in. Instead, I pretended much like them that what had transpired never really happened at all. I carried that so-called chip with me through college as I would walk by the mostly Asian tables in the cafeteria or ignored the exchange students while passing by. It was my intent to let all of them know that I was "not" one of them.

I'd like to think that my choice to enter the Air Force was based entirely on patriotism. However, the more I truly think about my past, the more I know deep down somewhere in my subconscious an effort to prove to the world that I was just as American as everybody else also played heavily in my decision making.

I wish I could have a caveat after my nametag on my uniform that reads (*adopted). I can see the curiosity in people's faces as I introduce myself. They look at me, then my nametag, back at me and so forth. Usually after the 4th or 5th nod I'll finally step in and tell them my concise backstory that I have told countless times. To their credit, few people ever just assume anything. I've even lied a few times and told people I was part Irish. The majority of the time I get the "oh yea, I can definitely see that reply," to which I say to myself "you liar."

So playing to people's naivety might not be entirely fair. In truth I'd rather just leave people scratching their heads in curiosity as they try to put 2+2+2 together. It saves me from having to explain anything.

Yesterday I went to a Japanese restaurant with my girlfriend. Ordinarily I ask for the fork but this time I instead reached for two chopsticks and dove in. I'm coordinated enough to use chopsticks and to be honest my reasoning for not using them before had never been for lack of talent. (Hell, I can dribble 4 basketballs simultaneously...and do it well, chopsticks are the equivalent of dribbling one). My choice to ignore the chopsticks and go with the fork had always been because chopsticks represented a culture I was not familiar with. Forks meant America to me, forks are what my friends from back home used and forks were what I was going to use. This time was different though. I was surrounded by complete strangers who probably assumed I had been using chopsticks for my entire life and my girlfriend who had seen me do much more embarassing things.

So was my stray from flatware this time a tacit acceptance of my culture or out of amusement? To be fair, probably a little bit of both. I guess like most people I've spent entirely too much of my life wondering what other people thought of me and have never accepted my background for what it truly is...diverse, unique and amazing. To that end, don't expect me to preface my nationality with a hyphen. No, I think Theodore Roosevelt would be turning in his grave. Instead, understand that I will never be "fully Asian, or Irish." I consider myself first and foremost an American; period. However, this does not mean that I can't have an appreciation for other cultures or my ethnicity. In conclusion, I suppose the best lesson that I could learn from all of this is that sometimes it's important for all of us to get out of our comfort zones and for lack of a good explanation, just try something different.

Perhaps I have over analyzed the fork/chopstick use but probably no more so than my 5 friends that witnessed me pick up the fork on that memorable night. As I looked around, I saw 5 white men who were very comfortable with who they were and what they were eating with. They used a utensil not to fit in or because of the company they were in, but because sometimes its simply "ok" to use chopsticks. Today more than ever, I am beginning to make strides to accept my ethnicity instead of shying away from it. Maybe living in the middle of the Pacific makes it easier for me. Now when I have the choice to use a fork or a chopstick, I go with the latter to make up for lost time. But if I'm really hungry I just find it more practical to use my fork :)

Joshua Joseph 'Do In' Carroll