A Happy Birthday to the Public Servant

"Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!"
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832)

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great."
Mark Twain (1835 – 1910)

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot / Nothing is going to get better. It's not."
Dr. Seuss (The Lorax) (1904 – 1991)

"Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere."
Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955)

Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men's blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die, but long after we are gone will be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistency. Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things that would stagger us. Let your watchword be order and your beacon beauty. Think big.
Daniel Burnham, Chicago architect. (1864 - 1912)

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron."
Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890 – 1969)

"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."
Theodore Roosevelt (1858 – 1919)

Boredom: Is It Catching?

I left an open prompt on gchat today: "Informal poll: When was the last time you were bored?". Sarah responded, and away we went:


Sarah: saturday. but on purpose.

me: heh. tell me more.

Sarah: stressful week, wanted to feel bored. so i did everything i had to do for a while, and then i sat around for a while and felt bored.
when was the last time you felt bored?

me: Hm. Well, here's the backstory:
Someone was complaining to me yesterday about people who got bored.

Sarah: uh huh

me: "What, you can't read a book? Watch a movie! Fucking do push-ups! Who gets bored!"
...
and I realized I can't really remember the last time that happened
to me, anyway
I mean, maybe 20-hour plane flights

Sarah: i can't remember the last time it happened and i didn't do something about it
hahaha TRUE
if i get bored i go do something else, usually

me: Right. I mean, I've never been exposed to boredom long enough that it ground at me
Right.

Sarah: fair

me: (Maybe I have been, but it's been a long while)
You think that's universal?

Sarah: (amen... 5th grade the last time i can really remember)
that cool people don't get bored
and icky people do?

me: I mean, do people just claim boredom to get a sweetheart to come over for a hookup session?

Sarah: haha well here's what im thinking
maybe there's two states of boredom
paralytic boredom and ... proactive boredom

me: I think probably the first ten minutes of the one lead, when unchecked, to the other
right? Or are some people prone to one but not the other?

Sarah: i think some people are prone to paralytic boredom

me: If you're a proactive bore (har har), can you fall into the other after years of neglecting your impulses?

Sarah: thinking of some of my students here
and never do anything to snap out of it

me: If you're the other way, can you be trained to be proactive?

Sarah: well i think people can change, so yes to both

me: (assuming, of course, that proactive's the way to be -- but I think that's an easy case to make)
woot!

Sarah: i think it's the only case to make
who wants to be a paralytic bore

me: truth. My bet is it's addictive, though
much like depression

Sarah: amen
i wonder if it's any different
maybe the boredom is a symptom of depression

me: Hmmm!
Or vice versa.

Sarah: who knows

___________________________

...do you, gentle reader? When was the last time you were bored? And what kind was it?

Security Isn't Free, Either

I once heard a Harvard professor give a talk describing the yumminess vs. safety scale for food regulation. Yummy food (yes, I’m quoting here) is frequently unsafe, and safe food rarely yummy. Head to the Texas border, he said, to see it in action. The same ingredients are used in burritos on either side of the border, but the Mexican version, with its unpasteurized cheese and fresher, unmedicated chicken, bursts with both flavor and, occasionally, Salmonella. The American version is recognizable as a burrito but has little taste in common with its more daring cousin. We’ve sacrificed some deliciousness in favor of safety.

Turn now to the news media, wherein, several times a week, in the midst of debating the war in Iraq, a TV pundit draws an indignant breath and intones, “Freedom isn’t free, you know.” The point, however self-righteously delivered, is well taken: while we’re at home enjoying the myriad privileges afforded us by our open and thriving society, men and women in uniform are giving their lives that this should be so.

The Bush administration daily levies the argument that they need increased power “to secure our freedoms” and “protect innocent lives.” We must have warrantless wiretapping on the instantaneous basis of need; we must allow the search of individual library records – to do anything less would compromise our safety. We put our liquids in 3 oz. containers and raise our hands above our sides and wonder nervously where the line will be drawn.

It turns out that, just like safe food, security isn’t free either. In this case, though, the price is paid in freedom.

Consider also that more than 4,000 American troops have been killed in Iraq, with more than 30,000 wounded and as many as 600,000 Iraqi deaths. We spend $725 million dollars a day to “fight them over there so that we don’t have to fight them here”, a plain reference to the security we gain from our efforts. Assuming that that argument is valid, is it worth the price?

How many Americans would live fuller and freer lives if we used that money and effort for freedom rather than security? The opportunities to do so are manifold: schools could be built; tuberculosis cases could be detected; economic stimulus checks could be increased; community centers could be heavily endowed; Pell grants could be funded at record levels; residents of New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward could be helped to move back in; veterans could be offered medical care at non-VA hospitals.

All of us want to prevent the next terrorist attack on the United States. Any one of us would sacrifice his or her own life to save thousands. But as a society, would we endanger our children’s educations to prevent 3,000 deaths? Would we compromise the American dream by cracking down on immigration and discouraging foreign visitors? Would we send our sons and daughters to uncertain death? What about to prevent 6,000 American deaths? Or 50,000? Such questions are the stuff of nightmares and of responsible government, and the abilities to humanely understand, resolve and – most of all – explain their nuances are the differences between great leaders and tyrants.

So no, security is not free, but many are the simpletons in power who imply (and maybe even believe) that it is. Our leaders know that every ounce of security we claim is paid for with a tax on our freedoms, but the invocation of sacred, unimpeachable freedom is often too great for them to resist. Beware any politician who would stop at nothing to protect our freedoms, for these are the men and women most likely to trample them underfoot.

Traditionally, we defer to anyone touting an interest in our protection. Protect our bodies and our wealth, he or she likely means, but we would do well to remember that such protections are not without cost, and that that cost is paid in our freedoms – freedoms whose protection, in the end, is up to us.

Job Satisfaction

Stanley Aronowitz, the Green Party’s choice for Governor of New York in the first years of this decade, once informed my class at Bard that we should not – could not, in fact – live our lives through our jobs. He told us that the day’s labors hadn’t always crept so deeply into home lives as they did now. As a nation, he said, we’d forgotten that we work so that we can come home and be with our families, practice our hobbies and pursue our dreams. In short, we work to live, and not vice versa. In the anti-establishment atmosphere of our tiny (emphasis on) liberal arts college, his words resonated strongly.

On reflection, though, I’m less moved. Should we not derive satisfaction from our work? If we are to enjoy our jobs, if they are to enrich us spiritually as well as monetarily, how can we draw Aronowitz’s line between labor and love? Have we devoted ourselves too fully to our jobs when we arrive late for dinner? When we skip a lunch hour? When we go out more often than not with our friends from work? When we talk shop rather than sports or politics with our colleagues? Is there any opportunity that shouldn’t trump an office obligation?

Or should we look to merge our jobs seamlessly with our lives, each twined around and through the other until we find ourselves asleep every so often on the keyboard at the office? Do we live to succeed?

If so, how can we find time for love? How much can we really be there for our children when we’ve committed ourselves to what is, after all, a righteous and necessary cause that would fall without us? (Is it possible to commit oneself body and soul to a job without convincing oneself that it is a righteous and necessary cause?)

It’s also worth considering whether occupants of different places in the economy might give different answers to these questions of commitment, value and priority. Are there jobs that, by their natures, must be abandoned without compunction when the proverbial whistle blows? Examples include most service jobs – plumber, janitor, bus driver, physical therapist, scribe. There’s a strong argument to be made that the “elite” levels of American culture are composed of jobs that don’t permit such detachment – vocations that cannot be left at work. Perhaps those of us who yearn for labors of love rather than labors of lucre that enable lives of love are tacitly admitting our place in the overworked aristocracy. (Was there ever such a glib phrase as “working Americans”, used largely to refer to the blue-collar middle-class?)

Should that divide exist?

Too, is there not a divide between what we want from our jobs at age 25 and what we’ll want when we hit 60 or 75? Shall we dive in now and live our labors to the exclusion of all else, planning to come up for air in our fertile years to make a family and then, gradually, to relinquish our yoke to the coming generation in favor of creature comforts and membership in our communities? Or would those years dedicated so heavily to vocational work have too high an opportunity cost in neighbors, friends and lovers, in books and in art?

If we decide, as many of us have, to go all-in during the sunniest days of our lives with an eye toward reining in our horses when the evening comes, can we really understand the sacrifice we’re making?

Finally -- and with a tip of the hat to Zac, who kindly reminds me that not all things in life are black and white – is this dichotomy an oversimplification? Surely there is middle ground between a menial job to bring home the bacon and a back-breaker of a job to satisfy even the most sweat-thirsty brow. I don’t doubt that I sold janitorial jobs short by describing them as mindless nine-to-fives, and in fact, I’ve spent some time with mops myself and have taken much pride in a floor well-scrubbed. But the question remains: How much of ourselves shall we invest in our occupation, and how much shall we lay in reserve for after the whistle blows?

Thoughts?

Oh, Mexico

The crashing surf provides mood music for the the hermit crabs scuttling passive-aggressively under banana leaves here at Mar de Jade, some hour’s drive south of Puerto Vallarta on the coast of Mexico. I share this space – campus is far too prosaic a word for this place, and estate smacks too strongly of cruel capitalism – with students and guests from around the United States.

The owner/proprietor/guru/storyteller-in-chief is an MD, MPH from los Estados Unidos who came to this area some decades ago to help build a public health infrastructure for the locals, who were (and still are) sorely in need. The zen retreat at which I stay doubles as housing for volunteers at the clinic that she still runs every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, providing free consults from doctors who donate their time. I went with them and found that I wasn’t entirely underfoot: taking blood pressure remains instinctive after my summers at Hopkins, and tough as the language barrier may be, a ready smile still puts most patients at ease while the doctor collects a history.

Still, I was struck by the differences between the “Mar de Jade Clinica Campesina” and the clinics I’ve frequented myself over the years. Few Americans would voluntarily tread into a doctor’s office with an open-air waiting room covered only by a trellis and vines, replete with flies and a noisy children’s program on the other side of the courtyard – certainly it’s not what we imagine as we debate the future of healthcare in this election. White lab coats are a distant myth to us as we usher the next patient into our semi-private exam rooms. The most high-tech tools available in the exam rooms are tiny flashlights for measuring pupil dilation, with reflex hammers a close second. One patient presented with an epidermal infection that we would have lanced but for lack of a scalpel. Women crowd the line outside the room containing the newly installed sonogram, and our OB/GYN, on loan from a Kaiser Permanente hospital in California, rushes madly through the patients in an effort to make sure no one goes home unseen.

Our patients are unfazed by the five to six gringos facing them in each examination room. We are frequently introduced by the English-speaking volunteer doctors as “mis collegas” – their colleagues – and are allowed to watch, certainly to speak during, most of the more prosaic procedures.

I am struck by the unwieldiness of the translation process. Though our doctors are conversant in Spanish, the histories are taken slowly for reasons both cultural and linguistic, as the doctors tiptoe their way through unfamiliar medical foliage in asking and then are faced with speedy yet meandering responses from the patients. I’ve been impressed everywhere in Mexico with the locals’ unapologetic belief in the importance of a good story, and the case interviews are no exception: sometimes we hear about a family member’s death for ten minutes before we finish the examination and call in the next patient. Having just read “The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down”, though, and faced with a paucity of medical resources, it occurs to me that an authoritative tone and an attentive ear are the most consistent medications we have available to dispense. I hope they help.

Whether they do or not, the clinic does have more modern techniques available. The lab tech comes in a couple of times each week to collect blood samples for analysis, and we can refer patients for ECGs or X-rays. These are all expensive, though, and even $50 US is an unreasonable sum to expect from the far from well-to-do patients who line the walls of the waiting room. The familiar battery of multi-syllabic medicines is available here as in the US, though the attenuated supply is hard to believe.

Lunch is hamburgers, known to all of us, in our newfound wry Mexican style, as “the American food.” We munch away and mainline lukewarm fruit punch as we debate the merits of allowing our interpreters to converse with the patients themselves and then relate the gist of the exchange back to the doctor. It’s not HHS-recommended procedure and there’s always the chance that we’re missing important nuances, but it seems to get the job done and it certainly puts the patients at ease, so no one feels too strongly about changing the process.

The line dwindles and our shoulders slump as the day draws to a close. We hop back in the truck to return to Mar de Jade and compare notes: doctors from the US and Canada, medical students from the South, post-bac students from the West Coast, and a PA and assorted others, including yours truly, the representative Baltimoron.

Au Revoir, NOLA

Looking back over my three weeks in New Orleans, I'm surprised (but pleased) to find that Jazz Fest was the least of my pleasures and privileges there. Certainly seeing Billy Joel and the Roots in the same venue was spectacular, but how could it compare with helping to turn this....


...into this...?



Or with the times that I learned to drywall:


...and what a subfloor looks like:



...and how and why to end it all:



I learned the difference between drywall drills and impact drivers, between legitimate contractors and exploitative frauds, between compassionate government and laissez-faire excusism, between disposable cities (myth) and indispensable cultural centers (reality),
between theoretical idealism and you-provide-the-materials-we'll-provide-the-labor world-changing effort. I learned about the ubiquity of good people and new friends, and the truth of Margaret Mead's most famous admonishment. I learned that jazz lives most fully in the streets.

And for all that a nice suit and a cubicle to work from lend forward momentum to movements, I learned that there's nothing like grueling work on the front lines to ease your soul and make measurable change in the world. Viva volunteerism.

So I'm back now, reflective and sun-tanned, and I cannot recommend too strongly that you volunteer yourself with lowernine.org. To my friends in the foundations of the rebuilding effort: thank you, and best of luck. I'll see you again soon.

The Little Things