Category Archives: Essays

December 20, 2012 · 11:13 PM

Update: Third Time’s A…Whatever!

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Sometimes I think the umbilical cord got tied around my neck when I was born and I ended up deprived of oxygen for the first few seconds of life; not enough to kill me, but enough to kill off a handful of brain cells.  Brain cells that never had a chance to grow into fully functioning emblems of life.  The job I thought I had turned out to be a bust.  I hate to sound like a victim, but the health care company where I was supposed to go to work needs a thorough proctological exam.  Its corporate head is jammed up its corporate ass.  Then again, what company doesn’t suffer from that affliction?  Especially the health care ones!

I was really surprised to get that job in the first place.  My interview was set for a Friday at 8 A.M., and I was late because I got lost.  MapQuest didn’t lead me in the right direction.  Didn’t they have problems with the Grand Canyon being put somewhere like Detroit or something a while back?  Either way, it just proves you can’t rely on technology too much.  In the old days – circa 1990 when I first went to work at the bank – you had to call the place and get actual cross street names and stuff.  Either way, I arrived 20 minutes late and made the best of it.  I looked at the lady in the eye and asked plenty of questions about the company itself.  I’d done my research on it; even finding out their latest stock price from the day before.  That kind of detail usually impresses people, or terrifies them if you’re with the Secret Service and trying to nab someone selling faux Cabbage Patch dolls.  But, I forgot about it after I left; thinking that the 20 minutes late thing killed it for me.  I returned home and went to bed.  I was still sleepy.  Thank God my truck knows its way back to the house.

Then, the recruiter with the health care staffing agency who had contacted me almost a month earlier called me late Monday afternoon.  The company offered me the position!  I couldn’t believe it.  I’d been late to an interview two previous times and didn’t get the job.  So, I was surprised.  Not enough to have an orgasm, but enough to have a drink that evening.  I had to complete the requisite paper work and submit to a drug screening and criminal background check.  I hate drug screening tests!  Can’t they just draw blood these days, instead of requiring you to urinate into a tiny plastic cup and then hand it back to them, like you’re a bartender at a dive joint?  I guess blood makes some people too squeamish.  The criminal background check is always intriguing.  I never know if they see my Spanish surname and feel compelled to contact the Border Patrol.  Damn those illegals!  But apparently, a weekend of drinking only water and shredding important documents paid off.  I was scheduled to start this past Monday, the 17th.  What could go wrong now?

A lot.

I had asked the recruiter (who’s in Florida) to whom was I supposed to report at the company.  She didn’t have a name; just go to the receptionist’s desk, and someone will lead me to orientation.  Okay, good.  Orientation was set for 9 A.M., and I arrived at 8:35.  I signed in at the receptionist’s desk log book and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  For about 10 minutes.  A couple of people came and went.  No one stopped to ask if they could help me; offer me a bottle of water; compliment me on my suit.  They just strolled past as if I was another cheap Christmas ornament.

Finally, the receptionist glided into the office in her 5-inch spike heels.  I told her who I was and why I was there.  She initially looked at me as if I was from the sewer plant; then she told me to head back down to the lobby and “wait on one of those black couches.”

“Any particular couch?”

“No, just pick one.  And, I’ll call someone to come get you.”

Okay, good.

So, I loped back down to the first level of the spacious glass-lined lobby and waited on one of the black couches.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Until I needed to find a men’s room.  After I stalked the halls of the first level, looking for the men’s room – hoping a ninja security official wouldn’t zap me with a taser for looking suspicious in my black suit and black brief case – I returned to that same black-ass couch.  And waited.  And waited.

Then, I noticed a sign on an easel opposite from me, beside a set of glass double doors.  In faint, italic type it said: Orientation.  Ah-hah!  I found it!  I grabbed the door handles.  They wouldn’t open; it was a secured access area.  Like Fort Knox.  That ninja security was surely headed my way now.  I’d better retreat to the black couch on the other side of room.  Another side embedded in the wall next to the doors advised visitors to head to the receptionist desk on the second level.  I’m not a visitor!  I’m a new employee!

I called the recruiter.  She muttered a ‘hm.’  Not one of those, ‘that’s an interesting question,’ or a, ‘I’ve never thought of that,’ kind of ‘hm.’  It was one of those, ‘Oh, shit!  I don’t know what the hell to do,’ kind of hm.

“I’ll call you back,” she told me.

Please do.  When you get a chance.  I was starting to like hanging around that lobby, examining all the cheap artwork, and hoped I could savor it a little while longer.  “I’ll go back up to the receptionist desk,” I told her.  Perhaps, when I was in search of the men’s room, some tired human resources drone lumbered out of her cocoon looking for me and only found my butt print on that black couch.  I think he was here!  He had to have been right here!

The receptionists gave me that, ‘Oh, you again,’ look.  Her feet are still recovering from walking around in those 5-inch spike heels, I thought.  She started calling people; five different people.  I counted.  I hoped one of them wouldn’t be a ninja security official.  She went off on the last person: “Why didn’t I know about this?  Why doesn’t this trickle down?”

“I’m going to call my recruiter again,” I told her.  I wanted to tell Trickle-down she looked cute, even though she didn’t.  But, I decided it’s not worth the energy to kiss up to people anymore.  I retreated back to that one black couch where my butt print had faded.  I hoped I wouldn’t inadvertently make it reappear.  I decided to stand, chic black cell phone in hand, looking like I was waiting for a client.  I can do that very well.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.

I’d heard the receptionist utter the name of someone; a lady in human resources I suspected.  Perhaps a life line into Fort Knox.  If I could find her, I’d be free from the glass lobby.  So I stopped a young woman exiting Fort Knox and asked if she knew this person.

“No,” she squeaked, before ambling away in her 4-inch spike heels.  What’s with these damn spike heels?!  I thought they’d gone the way of dial phones.

I asked another young woman exiting Fort Knox if she knew that particular woman.

“No,” she replied, before shuffling away in her painted-on jeans.  I thought painted-on jeans had also gone the way of spike heels.  They look so…so 70s-ish anyway.  Especially on a fat chick.

I stopped another woman leaving Fort Knox and asked if she could let me into the area.  I was prepared to tell her she looked cute, even though she didn’t.

“You have to check in at the receptionist desk,” she said.

“Okay,” I said with a gritty smile, “thank you.”  Translation: I’ve already done that you dumb bitch!  Let me into fucking Fort Knox!

I returned to the couch, cell phone in hand, keeping an eye out for that ninja security official.  I could see my big black truck from that vantage point.  It seemed to be calling for me.  ‘I’ll take you home now!  Just say the word and we’re gone.’

Then, that dreaded ninja security official arrived.  By my truck.  She stepped out of her little car with the yellow light on top and began examining my truck.  My truck can take care of itself; it’s a Dodge after all.  It scares Smart Cars stupid.  But, I decided I needed to help it out anyway.  The security official had whipped out her little note pad and was scribbling down my license plate number.  Didn’t note pads go the way of painted-on jeans?  I looked at her; this poor pathetic 50-something soul.  She was either a virgin or a lesbian; a girl whose role as a parking lot security official or a gym teacher was set at birth.

“I’m a new associate,” I told her.  Translation: I’m supposed to be here, so get the fuck away from my truck!

She squinted at me through her sunglasses.

“Apparently, there’s been a miscommunication,” I told her.

“Okay,” she said politely.  She had a nice smile – for a lesbian / virgin.

I arrived back home, much to my dog’s delight, and immediately emailed my recruiter to explain the situation.  ‘There’s been some kind of misunderstanding,’ I gleefully typed.  Translation: somebody fucked up big time!  I don’t know who it was; you or the company.  But, one of you two – maybe both of you – doesn’t have your shit together!

I breathed deep.

She called me and uttered that nefarious ‘hm.’  “Let me find out what’s going and call you back.”

Okay, good.  That would help to know what’s going on.  Problems get solved that way.

She called me back a few minutes later and told me to return to the company for the second half of orientation.  She even gave me the name and phone number of someone.  Perfect!

As I headed back, my phone rang.  It was a young woman I’ll call Andrea; she was with the company’s HR.  “I’m sorry,” she sang.  “There’s been some kind of mix-up.”

“Oh, I understand.  Those things happen.”  Translation: you have to be kidding me?!

She told me to wait for her in the lobby of that same building.

So, I arrived and perched myself in front of that same black couch; attired this time in a burgundy shirt and black slacks.  I still had my chic black cell phone and black brief case; still trying to look like a traditional well-seasoned businessman waiting for a client.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I finally decided to call that number the recruiter gave me.  It was the receptionist; the nothing-trickles-down-to-me gal whose feet hurt from walking around in those 5-inch spike heels.  She didn’t know why I was calling her, but said she’d call someone in HR to come get me.  Okay, good.  Don’t rush though.  I’m really enjoying this art work.

A moment later a young woman wandered into the lobby.  Andrea.  “I’m sorry,” she sang.  She was my saving grace; she knew who I was and why I was there – even if she resided in another building across the street.  She immediately began calling people from her hot pink cell phone.  She called three.  I counted.  No one knew what she did – that I’m a technical writer who was supposed to start that day.  For some reason, though, she couldn’t let me into Fort Knox.  “Let’s go upstairs!” she said cheerfully.

Oh sure!  Want to hang out near those cool fake Christmas trees and see Trickle-down again.

Trickle-down was not happy to see us.  She also didn’t know Singing Andrea.  They began calling more people.  They got one woman in there who tried to help.  I mean, she really tried.  But, she didn’t know where I was supposed to go.  I couldn’t go to hell.  I was already there!  They lulled another woman out from the back.  She must have rushed to the front; her bangs were astray.  She didn’t know where I was supposed to go.  They tricked a young man to the receptionist desk.  He didn’t know where I was supposed to go.  The first woman had disappeared briefly, then reappeared – with the names of two authority figures!  If one couldn’t help, the other surely could.

I followed Singing Andrea across the hall into another Fort Knox-type area in search of this mysterious person.  She wasn’t at her desk.  Singing Andrea asked someone about the second woman.  I followed her to that second woman’s office.  She didn’t know who was or where I was supposed to go.

I followed Singing Andrea back into the lobby.  “I’m sorry,” she hummed.

“Should I just wait?” I asked, clinging onto hope like a third-class Titanic passenger would hang onto a deck chair.

“No, because I don’t know what’s going on.”

Oh, God!  You’re kidding me!

“I’ll just call my recruiter,” I responded with a gritty smile and sauntered back to my truck.

‘I told you,’ it said.

My dog was even more surprised to see me.  I emailed the recruiter.  ‘Things still didn’t work out,’ I wrote.  Translation: they still don’t know what the fuck they’re doing!

I was exhausted.  But, at least I got to watch another episode of “People’s Court.”  I love Judge Marilyn Milian!

The recruiter called at 6:45 A.M. the next morning.  “There appears to have been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Deep breath – no!

This time she had a name; someone I’ll call Donna.  “They’ll conduct a special orientation for you,” the recruiter told me.

I’ve always known I was special – in a ‘Children of a Lesser God’ kind of way – so I started to feel warm and loved.

“It’s at 9; be there by 8:30.”

I wouldn’t miss this for the world.  Besides, my truck is multi-talented; it can run on water, too.  I arrived at 8:35.

Trickle-down gave me her best constipation-from-hell face.

Damn, girl!  Are your feet still sore?  “I have a name.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Donna,” and then, Donna’s last name.

She didn’t recognize the name – and didn’t have a phone number for her.

I started to get constipated.

“But, she has an email address, so let me try to get hold of her that way.”

Oh, thank God!  I mean, who in a company wouldn’t have an email address these days?

I called the recruiter’s supervisor who was also in Florida.  “They don’t have a number for Donna.  Do you?”

“Hm,” said recruit-supervisor.  (Shit!)  “Let me call you back.”

Okay, good.  I want to check out that art work again.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Trickle-down said she hadn’t heard from Donna yet.

“I’ve let my recruiter know,” I smiled grittily.

Recruit- supervisor told me to ask the receptionist at the lobby desk to let me into Fort Knox.  I could see the lobby desk from my second level view; it was barren.  No receptionist; no lesbian / virgin security official; not even a phone or a wax plant.  “Just go down to the first level and wait for someone.”

I hoped ‘someone’ would have a name.  So, I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I’d noticed some people gathering in a nearby conference room.  I finally decided to approach and ask somebody – anybody! – if they knew this mysterious Donna.

A young woman with coal black hair said she knew Donna and immediately tried to call her; she couldn’t reach her.

Constipation started creeping back into my gut.

Coal-black finally asked another woman who entered the conference room if she could help me out.  This second woman, a smiling middle-aged lady, uttered what I’d suspected for the past 24 hours; the company often had a failure to communicate.  Trickle-down wasn’t alone!  “I’ll find someone,” said Smiling-middle-aged and disappeared upstairs.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.

A third woman in a purple sweater approached me.  “Let me find out what’s going on,” she said merrily.

“Okay, good.”

Purple-sweater disappeared upstairs.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Recruit- supervisor finally called back.  “They’ve decided to pull the position.”

“Excuse me?”

As fate would have it, the position had evaporated sometime between the time I pissed in a cup and the day I arrived with my black brief case.  It’s just that no one below upper management knew it.  Until five minutes ago.  Texas time.

My truck and my dog were both glad to see me.  It was mutual.

This has been one of the strangest odysseys I’ve ever encountered.  But, it proves what I say in my ‘About’ page: I’m just not one for the corporate environment.  I’m too independent-minded.  I’m a true outsider.  Always have been; always will be.  I’m a writer; therefore, I’m a strange little creature.  I just don’t fit into anyone’s box.  Other people’s rules don’t apply.

So, this it.  I’m done with corporate America.  I’m starting my own freelance writing business.  Writing is all I’ve ever wanted to do anyway.  I’ve been writing since before most people started reading.  I was reading before most people were walking.  It’s part of my genetic makeup.  Thus, I see all this as some sort of sign; a twisted, back-breaking sign.  But, a sign nonetheless.  You dumb ass it said!  You don’t belong behind some else’s desk!  Alas, I’ve come to realize it.

Now, the Chief really begins a new chapter in his life.  Besides, my dog and my truck will be grateful.  And, I can watch more Judge Marilyn Milian!

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December 18, 2012 · 8:33 PM

Gun ≠ Manhood

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Recently Bushmaster, the gun manufacturer, released an advertisement aimed directly at its male patrons; challenging them to reclaim their “man card.”  The online ad linked to a “test” where questions would help determine if a man is a real man.  Some are silly: ‘Do you eat tofu?’  Others are practical: ‘Can you change a tire?’  For the record, my answers are ‘no’ and ‘yes,’ respectively.  The test apparently has been removed, but this debate is coming up again in light of the Connecticut school shootings last Friday.

The connection between Bushmaster and the massacre of 28 people in that grade school is more than just a little unsettling.  Adam Lanza, the 20-year-old shooter, used a .223 assault rifle – the same kind displayed in Bushmaster’s advertisement.  In this gun-loving society, some men – and women – still equate firearms with masculinity.  A gun or rifle, after all, has a strangely-phallic shape (which may or may not be by design) and bullets could easily be mistaken for testicles or even sperm cells.

This whole thing is similar to the ongoing myth that a boy becomes a man when he has sex with a woman.  Apparently, the hyper-macho crowd didn’t that out too well, since it assumes that adult females are the harbingers of masculinity; that the secret ingredient to true male adulthood is somehow ensconced within a woman’s vaginal walls.  But, as the proud owner of a penis, I never felt a woman held the ‘Holy Grail’ to my manhood.  And, neither does Bushmaster.  Despite its phallic resemblance, a firearm just can’t substitute for a penis, or more importantly, a man’s true sense of self worth.

I’ve known plenty of real men in my life, including my father and uncles.  They, along with several male friends, know how to shoot a firearm; a few own actually a gun or two.  That’s fine.  People have that constitutional right, just like they have the right to free speech, which I feel is more important.  But, none of those men I know has the overwhelming need to shoot a gun and kill people to prove their masculinity.  Boys become men when they learn to accept personal responsibility for their actions; when they learn to take care of themselves; when they show respect for others, while maintaining their dignity; when they care for their families and their communities; when they stand up for those who truly can’t stand up for themselves.  These are real men I know: fathers and husbands; hard workers; tax-payers – men who have built good lives for their families.  A real man knows how to set the table and do laundry, as well as change a flat tire.  A real man spends time playing tea party with his young daughter, or coaching his son’s little league soccer team, not out shooting deer and moose.

These men don’t need a gun manufacturer to issue them a “man card.”  They earned their “man cards” themselves – not from some stupid test asking about tofu and staring down fifth-graders.  They’re the silent majority.  They’re the real men of this world.

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December 17, 2012 · 7:31 AM

Third Time’s A…Whatever!

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Today, the Chief begins the next phase of his increasingly curious life – another job.  It’s a contract technical writing position – the third one in the past year.  The last two were pulled out from beneath me without much warning.  So, we’ll see how this one goes.  I’m trying to temper my enthusiasm.  A close friend of mine told me not to be so pessimistic; that people can sense a negative attitude and eventually steer away from it.  I almost told him to go to hell, but he’s such a good friend, and I don’t have too many friends.  Such is the plight of the writer.  We observe and write about human nature, but just don’t like to get too close to those human types.  Admittedly, it’s tough to be optimistic after enduring unemployment for the better part of the past two years.  Getting laid off from that engineering company was a mixed blessing.  The stress throughout that last year had become almost unbearable.

So, why would I put myself back into that maelstrom?  Well, there are these minor inconveniences called bills.  They’re like zits to a teenager.  You eliminate one, and another pops up.  They just don’t go away.  My student loan zits have become especially annoying.  They really just won’t go away!  They impact another little inconvenience called credit reports.  I suppose I could pack up and move far away to some isolated coastal community like a lot of writers and concoct a new identity to eschew those little pests.  But, I’m too tied to this community.

Thus, I reenter the corporate world once again; pushing my creative writing career just a tad further back.  But, I need and want this technical writing experience.  I love it almost as much as I do fiction writing.  I trained for it anyway; my English degree specializes in professional writing.  I have to make that pay off.  Besides, I reflect on my years in the standard business world and found all the crap I’ve seen and done makes for some great stories!  That’s the writer in me: always finding a way to humiliate the people around me without them realizing it.

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December 12, 2012 · 12:55 AM

Mother Wolf Turns 80

The wolf pup and his mother, Christmas 1965.

The wolf pup and his mother, Christmas 1965.

Today my mother, Guadalupe, marks her 80th birthday.  Even with high life expectancies here in the U.S., that’s still a notable milestone.  My mother was born just outside México City, the second of four children to a German-American father and a Mexican mother.  If you understand anything about Germans and Mexicans, then you might have an idea what a character my mother turned out to be.  She had a rough start.  She weighed less than 2 pounds, which in the early 1930s, was an almost certain death sentence for a baby.  They carried her home in a shoe box and used her father’s handkerchiefs as diapers.  And, she lived.

Her father had traveled from his native Michigan with an uncle to México in the late 1920s.  They were selling farm equipment.  Eventually, my grandfather’s uncle returned to Michigan, but my grandfather stayed in México where he met my grandmother.  They were an odd couple; two people from two completely different worlds.  But somehow, it all worked out.  Unfortunately, my grandmother died on Christmas Day 1940 at the age of 33.  Less than three years later, my grandfather moved the kids and mother-in-law to Texas where he had found work.  It was the height of World War II, and he had to leave México.  That turned out to be the best thing for them all, though; in part, because my mother eventually met my father.

I’m an only child and knowing what my mother endured during her pregnancy and labor makes me realize why.  She literally almost lost me twice and nearly died in the process.  There’s just no way to thank a woman willing to sacrifice her life to bring you into this world.  Besides, it’s from her that I get my love of reading and my acumen for spelling – two attributes that every good writer must have.  Happy Birthday, Mother!

Me with my parents at their 25th wedding anniversary in 1984.

Me with my parents at their 25th wedding anniversary in 1984.

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December 2, 2012 · 9:40 PM

I Almost Hope They Don’t Find a Cure for AIDS

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Yesterday, December 1, was World AIDS Day.  Since 1988, this day has been set to bring attention to one of the world’s greatest health crises.  Since the scourge was first identified in 1981, epidemiologists estimate that more than 25 million people across the globe have died of AIDS. The agent that causes AIDS – HIV (human immunodeficiency virus) – was first isolated in 1984.  But, AIDS surely was around long before 1981; wreaking havoc on the immune systems of unsuspecting people.  There’s anecdotal evidence that people were dying of AIDS in Africa and Europe in the 1960’s and in the U.S. by the 1970s.  Not all of the victims were gay/bisexual men, drug users, prostitutes or various other members of society’s miscreants.

In his 1987 book And the Band Played On, author Randy Shilts describes the early uncertain days of the AIDS epidemic; noting how even the gay male community was reluctant to admit there was a problem; and providing incredibly detailed scientific research.  He’d based it on a series of articles he’d written about the ailment for the “San Francisco Chronicle.”  The same year AIDS was identified Shilts had become the newspaper’s first openly gay employee.  While the novel was hailed as groundbreaking and a masterpiece of investigative reporting, Shilts took a big risk with both it and his series of articles for two reasons: 1) he brought attention to a health issue many at the time thought wasn’t worth covering, and 2) he revealed personal details of his own sexual proclivities.

Shilts (who died of AIDS in 1994) faced the same level of ostracism within the gay/lesbian community as writer and gay rights activist Larry Kramer did in 1978 when he published his book “Faggots,” a scathing criticism of New York City’s seemingly sex- and drug-obsessed gay male populace.  In the story the main character laments, ‘Why do faggots have to fuck so fucking much?!’  At the start of the AIDS epidemic, Kramer condemned gay men for “fucking themselves to death.”  Such honesty doesn’t correspond nicely with political correctness.  Neither do I.

AIDS is not really a disease unto itself.  As the acronym implies, it’s a syndrome in which the body’s immune system is adversely impacted and it’s acquired.  Once that happens, individuals can fall victim to almost any ailment.  AIDS is associated primarily with 2 diseases: Kaposi’s sarcoma (KS), a rare form of skin cancer, and pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP), a rare form of double pneumonia.

Among cancers, KS is relatively benign.  Historically it usually strikes older men of Mediterranean extraction; perhaps, because they spent years fishing in the open sea without any of the now-recommended skin protection.  But, they often live long lives anyway and usually die of something else.

In 1910, a scientist named Antonio Carini Orsi discovered the PCP virus in the lungs of Brazilian guinea pigs.  In 1918, European doctors found it in the lungs of the common sewer rat.  Not until after World War II, however, did scientists realize it could live in humans; when European orphanages and Nazi concentration camps (where health conditions were deplorable) were evacuated.  In the 1950s, as organ transplants became possible, doctors realized they had to suppress the body’s immune system to prevent rejection – and discovered that PCP would then settle into the patient.  Once they started up the immune system, the PCP would disappear.

By the late 1960s, however, doctors in some of Africa’s largest metropolitan areas, such as Kampala, Uganda and Nairobi, Kenya, were startled to learn of a particularly vicious strain of KS coming from the continent’s heartland.  It didn’t make sense, since the region’s residents didn’t fit the traditional profile.  At the same time, doctors in many large European cities began to treat cases of both KS and PCP.  There was a tenuous connection: many of the European victims had either visited or lived in Africa.  They were military personnel, diplomats, missionaries and others involved in the health care industry; all helping various African nations to build their new-found independence after centuries of European imperialism.

Beginning in the late 1970s, doctors in such U.S. cities as New York and San Francisco were alarmed at increasing incidents of KS and PCP among otherwise healthy gay men.  Then, other doctors began to notice similar KS and PCP developments among intravenous drug users and prostitutes.  But, since those groups were generally considered the dregs of society, the mainstream medical community didn’t take their health concerns seriously.

In June of 1980, California state health officials met in San Francisco for their annual conference.  Dr. Mathilde Krim, an official with the San Francisco Health Department, expressed concerns about the relentlessly high rates of venereal disease infection, including Hepatitis B, among the city’s gay men.  Just 5 years earlier, scientists had confirmed that Hepatitis B could be sexually transmitted; the same year they identified Hepatitis C (initially called non-A, non-B).  In 1977, San Francisco established the “Cohort Study,” a program designed to track rates of Hepatitis B infection in gay men.  Administrators aggressively asked participants detailed questions about their sexual activities and drew blood and tissue samples.  A decade later, when the first test for HIV appeared, many of those blood and tissue samples tested positive for that virus.  That’s why the U.S. bans any man who’s had sex with another man since 1977 from donating blood or becoming an organ donor.  On the bright side, results of the Cohort Study led to the development of the Hepatitis B vaccine in 1983.

At the 1980 California state health conference, though, Krim warned that there was “too much infection,” later adding, “If something new gets loose here, we’re going to have hell to pay.”

That was a long time ago.  It’s 2012, not 1982.  We now know how HIV is – and is not – transmitted.  We know it’s not God’s condemnation of the homosexual lifestyle, and Ronald Reagan wasn’t responsible for its spread.  AIDS circulated rapidly among gay men not because of the type of sex they had, but because of the number of partners they had.  Beginning in the late 1960s, gay men took the sexual revolution and ran with it – further and faster than any other group of people.

AIDS didn’t spread in the U.S. and other developed countries as rapidly as in Africa and Asia for two main reasons.  In the developed world, there’s a generally higher standard of living; people have greater access to health care and information.  But, also women in developed countries are more empowered with education and economic security.  Unlike women in developing nations, women here know they don’t always have to jump in bed with a man; they don’t always have to resort to prostitution just to survive.  They can say no to those things and not be considered an outcast.  Women here also aren’t nearly as sexually promiscuous as men.  They’ve always considered the consequences of reckless sexual behavior; mainly an unwanted pregnancy.  But, if you have two men who are attracted to other men, there’s no cat-and-mouse game; no ‘he acts, she reacts’ type of situation.

HIV most certainly isn’t a new virus.  It’s probably lurked in the blood stream of humanity for centuries, if not millennia, waiting for something like the drug and sex revolutions of the mid-twentieth century.  In that respect, the AIDS death toll in the U.S. alone surely exceeds 700,000 and probably the 1 million mark.  Throughout the 1980s, many health care professionals – some long since retired – began recalling odd illnesses among people who didn’t fit the early AIDS profile: gay men, drug users and prostitutes.  Scientists are now certain that a man who died in what is now Kinshasa, Congo in 1959 succumbed to AIDS.  Doctors treating him at the time were so baffled by his illness they preserved samples of his blood, which later tested positive for HIV.  That same year a British sailor died of what was later confirmed to be AIDS.  His doctors also were confounded by his illness and preserved samples of his tissue, which tested positive for HIV in 1986.  Then, there’s the strange case of a teenager known only as “Robert R” who died in his native St. Louis in May 1969, following a 6-month bout with a series of debilitating illnesses.  Intrigued by Robert’s curious symptoms, a Washington University researcher froze some of his autopsy samples – which later tested positive for HIV.

A cure for AIDS would be a triumph of medicine and science; perhaps the greatest since the elimination of small pox.  It’s one of the many proverbial “Holy Grails” sought by medical researchers.  But – to some extent – I hope that day never arrives.  If it does, I’m afraid we’ll see a rebirth of the sex and drug revolutions.  Some people – realizing they could just take a pill or a series of shots if they become infected with HIV – will go wild and starting fucking around like rabbits on Viagra.  Then, within a decade or two – if that long – we’ll see a new, more virulent strain of HIV appear on the microbial horizon.  And, it won’t be so easily cured.  And, all that time, money and energy that went into AIDS research will be dumped into the sewer like a used condom.  That’s not something I wish for – it’s something I fear will happen.

Between 1981 and 2011, estimates put the AIDS death toll in the United States at less than 700,000.  But, since 1981, how many people have died of cancer?  Leukemia?  Diabetes?  Heart disease?  Suicide?  Each of those has taken several times more lives than AIDS.  Even among gay/bisexual men, HIV is not the number 1 health crisis.  It may be the top concern – as gay and bisexual men comprise nearly half of all people with HIV in the U.S.  But, heart disease and various cancers are taking the lives of more gay and bisexual men than AIDS; yet if you look at the literature and the propaganda, you’d think it was the only thing they’d have to worry about.  To make matters worse, HIV infection rates are rising among young gay and bisexual men – or “MSM” (men who have sex with other men), as if though the terminology makes a hell of a lot of difference.  Regardless, it doesn’t make sense.  This generation of young adults grew up reading and hearing about AIDS, safe sex and drug abuse.  I can understand 30 years ago when people had no real idea what was happening.  But, as a society, we’re not so ignorant – or we shouldn’t be.

HIV is difficult to get.  It’s infectious, but not contagious.  You don’t catch it from sitting next to an infected person in a movie theatre, or touching an elevator button.  It doesn’t float through the air like a flu virus.  It’s a blood-borne pathogen, and you really have to do something serious with an infected person – either by choice or unwillingly – to get it.  So, why do some people screw around aimlessly and then cry when they get sick?  It’s the same with folks who drink alcohol heavily for 20, 30 years and develop cirrhosis.  It’s the same with people who deal drugs and get arrested.  Why do they think they’re victims?  It’s tough to have sympathy for someone who recklessly, almost deliberately, puts themselves in danger and then, comes out injured – or dead.  It’s one thing if a firefighter charges into a burning building to save someone and dies in the process.  It’s another if someone races down a highway at 100 mph on a motorcycle without wearing a helmet and crashes.  Yes, you’d probably help the bike rider.  But, are you really surprised he or she crashed?

I’m not being judgmental, but I can be critical.  I’ve had unsafe sex with both men and women.  I’ve been fortunate, since I’ve never come down with anything.  One of my best friends died of AIDS in 1993, and another good friend has been battling HIV for more than 20 years.  Neither ever blamed anyone else for their circumstances.  About 10 years ago yet another HIV-positive friend of mine dismissed the severity of his affliction; claiming that, one day, AIDS will be a chronically-managed ailment, akin to diabetes and blood pressure.  I looked at him like the idiot he was and resented the comparison.  An AIDS death is not pretty, or even “chronically-managed.”  It’s painful and ugly.  Watching my friend die in 1993 made me leery of it and realize it’s not just an inconvenience.  There’s nothing manageable about that.

So, as the 25th annual World AIDS Day passes, I wonder how the ailment will progress in the near future.  I wonder how our global society will progress with it.  Yes, I’m certain science will discover a cure for AIDS – but, in some ways, I think that could be a bad thing.

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November 30, 2012 · 10:23 PM

United Hamlets of Texas

texas-secession

Once again, my beloved home state of Texas is in the news for all the wrong reasons.  We used to make headlines for our space program and oil patch revenues.  Now, it’s the glaring call for “Secession.”  Two years ago Governor Rick Perry publicly toyed with the idea of secession; claiming he didn’t want Washington elitists interfering with our business – especially any half-blooded Negroes who might occupy the White House.  After he won a third term that fall, he denied rumors he would seek the presidency, again stating, in effect, that would betray his anti-Washington stance.  Then, he went back on his word and jumped into the presidential race last year; ultimately embarrassing the crap out of the Lone Star State.  We moderates didn’t like him much anyway, but now, he’s our version of the anti-Christ.

But, the “S” word has reared its ugly head again; this time in the form of a petition a group of Texans actually have submitted to the White House.  The petition reads, in part:

“Given that the state of Texas maintains a balanced budget and is the 15th largest economy in the world, it is practically feasible for Texas to withdraw from the union, and to do so would protect it’s [sic] citizens’ standard of living and re-secure their rights and liberties in accordance with the original ideas and beliefs of our founding fathers which are no longer being reflected by the federal government.”

As of now, more than 118,000 people have signed it.  If I had my way, I’d secede them and any subsequent followers to a boat in the middle of the Atlantic.  Unfortunately, though, the White House – by federal law – now has to take this mess seriously.  We’re in the midst of an economic crisis, and our troops still haven’t left that oversized latrine known as Afghanistan.  But, the Obama Administration will have to spend precious time and resources giving a pack of disgruntled moonshining acolytes the attention they didn’t get from their own trailer park families.

Never mind that, should Texas actually manage to secede, we’d lose tens of millions of dollars in federal funding for highway infrastructure, education and our slew of military bases.  But, if Texas does become its own nation, I have to wonder how our constitution and “Bill of Rights” would read.  From El Paso to Texarkana and Amarillo to Brownsville, what would become of all of us?

Would our currency have a picture of Rick Perry holding a gun or a pair of fallopian tubes?

Would we have to build an electrified fence along our border with New México?  I can understand Louisiana and Arkansas, but New México?!

Will our national history begin with David Crockett and Jim Bowie, instead of c. 9,000 B.C.?

Will everyone above the age of 10 months be required to carry a gun?

Will there be a border crossing bridge into Oklahoma?

What will we bomb after we’ve destroyed all the Planned Parenthood offices?

Will Ann Richards’ body be disinterred and reburied at sea?

Will the Bush clan be declared our royal family?

Will everyone with Spanish surnames have to get branded?

Will Chuck Norris be our ambassador to the United States?  Or, will it be Ted Nugent?

Will legitimate rape be included in the “Texas Bill of Rights”?

Will the Civil War be renamed “The Great Freedom Battle”?

Will the term “slavery” be replaced with “low-skilled labor”?

Will chicken fried steak be considered a delicacy?

What will be the official national religion – Southern Baptist or Smith & Wesson?

Will art museums be considered communist propaganda?

When will open season on Muslims, Jews and Wiccans begin?

Will foot-binding become fashionable again?

Will Texas Supreme Court justices still wear black robes, or switch to leather chaps?

So the death penalty will only apply to retarded people now, right?

Will shooting and killing any non-White person be classified as a misdemeanor?

Will rap music be outlawed?

If Lady Gaga tries to make it into Texas, will she be shot on sight?

Will TV shows like 20/20 and Dancing with the Stars be subtitled?

Will FOX News become our state-run news station?

Will every home have speakers installed through which “God Bless Texas” can be blared 5 times a day?

Will red become the official national hair color?  I’d go for that!

Will people from California and Massachusetts have to step aside at the airport for extra pat-downs?  Or, will they just be jailed as soon as they step off the plane?

Will opera and symphony companies have to shut down and be replaced by NASCAR gift shops?

If Chris Matthews tries to make it into Texas, will he be shot on sight?

Tea klux Klan_secdee

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November 25, 2012 · 9:47 PM

Middle East Morass

Here we go again – more violence in the Middle East.  In case you’ve been in a coma, or preoccupied by Dancing with the Stars, Egypt is in another uproar; this time because President Mohammed Morsi has issued a mandate that grants him more political power.  This comes less than two years after Egyptian liberation activists forced Hosni Mubarak to resign, following a nearly three-decade reign.  Then, the “Arab Spring” erupted, as one country after another in the region started demanding truly democratic states; free speech, free elections, the freedom to walk down the street and not be hit by a car bomb.  But, just as things seemed to settle down – and they always just seem to settle down – Israel and Palestine have begun fighting once more.  Yawn – so what’s new?

Years ago, when I worked for a bank in downtown Dallas, I’d set my VCR to record the CBS Evening News.  I often made it home, as the VCR was recording, so I’d just lay down for a quick nap.  But, whenever news of the day’s events came to the Middle East, I’d just fast-forward the tape.  I didn’t want to hear – again – what crap was ablaze in that part of the world.  And, that part of the world is always ablaze.  If news reports of the region don’t show scattered body parts and ambulances swinging around street corners, I tend to think the end of the world has come and I didn’t check my email in time.

Just like every U.S. president since Richard Nixon has longed to end America’s dependence on foreign oil, every U.S. president since Richard Nixon has sought peace in the Middle East.  In the waning days of their respective administrations, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush became determined to draw up peace treaties.  But, Jimmy Carter came closest of any Chief Executive with the Camp David Accords.  In 1978, he succeeded in bringing Egyptian President Anwar Sadat and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin together to discuss two plans of action:

(1) a framework for the conclusion of a peace treaty between Egypt and Israel and;

(2) a broader framework for achieving peace in the Middle East.

The first provided for a phased withdrawal of Israeli forces from the Sinai Peninsula and that region’s full return to Egypt within three years of the signing of a formal peace treaty between the two countries.  It also guaranteed the right of passage for Israeli ships through the Suez Canal.  The second was a more general framework (with vague terms) for Israel to gradually grant self-government and/or autonomy to the Palestinians in the Israeli-occupied West Bank and Gaza Strip and to partially withdraw its forces from those areas in preparation for negotiations on their final status of autonomy after a period of three years.  The two countries had been in an almost perpetual state of conflict since the 1956 Suez War, which had ultimately led to the 1967 “Six Day War.”  Israel invaded Egypt in May 1967, after the latter had forced the United Nations to withdraw from the Suez region.  Israel believed Egypt was about to attack them, so it engaged in what is now called a preemptive strike.

That’s how it’s been ever since.  The history of the Middle East is long and complicated, as you might expect from one of the birth places of modern humanity.  Early Egyptians built one of the most advanced and complex societies in the ancient world; they created one of the earliest forms of writing.  The ancient Israelites had lived in the area for thousands of years.  But, scores of powerful societies – from the Babylonians to the Romans to the Ottoman Empire – gradually forced them out in different waves over extended periods of time.  The British were the last; leaving in 1948, as the new Israeli state took shape.

Thus, I hate to see that entire region engulfed in a continuing state of war.  It’s one of the most culturally and archeologically significant places in the world.  I was upset, in early 2001, when the Taliban destroyed some of the oldest pre-Islamic statues in Afghanistan, including a 2,000-year-old, 165-foot-tall Buddhist masterpiece.

Since its founding as a formal nation in 1948, Israel is always fighting someone.  But, it seems they have no choice; they’re surrounded by enemies.  And, Israel is a small country, both geographically and population-wise.  Like every other nation, it has a right to exist in peace.  Its people have endured plenty of suffering, too; bounced around like trash sometimes; forced to move from one place to the next, while trying to maintain their unique
cultural identify and personal dignity.  The Nazi Holocaust of World War II compelled many Jews to flee Europe and settle in the area generally known before 1948 as Palestine.  They sought to establish their own homeland.

I actually support Israel.  They are the only true democracy in the Middle East.  They have the highest standard of living in the region and one of the highest in the world.  They also have one of the best national policies: every one of their able-bodied, able-minded citizens must serve in one branch of their military.  I feel the U.S. should adopt the same strategy, although wealthy conservatives, bleeding heart liberals and angry feminists would throw a fit.

But, I’m tired of it.  I’m tired of this Middle East mess.  I’M REALLY TIRED OF IT!  Like presidential campaigns and Thanksgiving turkeys, it’s never-ending.  And, the entire world seems to stop and pay attention when a bomb goes off or a solider is kidnapped – which I’m sure is how Israel, Palestine and all the others like it.  At the start of the 2007 – 2009 Israel – Palestine conflict, even HLN’s Nancy Grace took time out from looking for missing White females to talk with Christiane Amanpour about the fighting.  I literally did a double take.  What the hell was Nancy Grace doing involved in that shit?!

But, that proves how much attention the Middle East garners whenever things go awry – which is all the time.  It’s the same conflict – the same issues – the same level of anxiety – and the same results.  People die, and the streets are bloodied.  Israel holds up its hands, saying they had no alternative but to defend itself, and Palestine, Egypt, or whoever claims they’re fighting for their own self-preservation.  Nothing changes.  Yet, the U.S. keeps jumping in to save Israel and work towards elusive peace agreement.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next – aside from more bloodshed and name-calling – and I don’t know what can be done about it.  But, sometimes I wish the U.S. would just stay the hell out of it.  I know that won’t happen.  But, I have these wild dreams sometimes and I like to think they can actually come true, if people would just listen to me.

Image courtesy of Olle Johansson.

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November 22, 2012 · 9:14 PM

First Thanksgivings

A depiction of the 1565 Augustine, Florida Thanksgiving.

Americans know the story.  The Mayflower Pilgrims – thankful to survive, first, a brutal voyage across the Atlantic and, second, a nasty winter sat down with a group of locals (a.k.a. Indians) and had a bountiful feast of food.  Like many American legends, it’s a mixture of truth and hyperbole.  But, as time progresses and historians research more, Americans are starting to realize they actually may have experienced more than just one “First Thanksgiving.”

Along with Thanksgiving, descendants of the Mayflower like to claim they established the first permanent European settlement in what is now the United States.  They’re wrong on both counts.  Long before the Mayflower even set sail, Spanish explorers had spread throughout much of present-day Latin America and what is now the southwestern U.S.  In 1565, Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles arrived in northeastern Florida.  He named the stretch of land near the inlet in honor of Augustine, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church; it was on Augustine’s feast day – August 28 – that Menendez de Aviles and his crew had sighted land.  Menendez de Aviles and his contingent of some 1,500 mostly military personnel encountered the Timucuan Indians who had occupied the region for millennia.  The Spaniards had brought pork, olive oil and wine, but the Timucuans helped them gather oysters and giant clams.  At some point immediately afterwards, the two groups feasted together.  The city eventually became St. Augustine, and today its residents declare they are home to the nation’s first Thanksgiving celebration.

At Texas’ westernmost point sits the city of El Paso, where humans first settled around 10,000 B.C.  In March of 1598, another Spanish explorer named Don Juan de Oñate led an expedition across the Chihuahua Desert, hoping to colonize regions north of the massive Rio Grande.  After a 50-day trek, Oñate and his entourage of roughly 500 people, including several children, arrived in the area of contemporary El Paso.  Most were barely alive.  They’d exhausted their supplies of food and water; a rain shower saving them at one point.  Once they reach the El Paso area, though, conditions and circumstances improved.  The indigenous Tigua Indians helped the Oñate group capture wild game and fish.  After several days of recuperation, Oñate ordered a feast to venerate the expedition’s survival.  On April 30, 1598, the Spaniards and the Tiguas celebrated together.

A member of the expedition wrote: “We built a great bonfire and roasted the meat and fish, and then all sat down to a repast the like of which we had never enjoyed before. . . We were happy that our trials were over; as happy as were the passengers in the Ark when they saw the dove returning with the olive branch in his beak, bringing tidings that the deluge had subsided.”

In April of 1989, the city of El Paso began honoring the Oñate celebration, laying claim to that coveted “First Thanksgiving” mantle.  But, Florida and Texas aren’t alone.

The state of Maine also stakes a claim to the “First Thanksgiving” on the basis of a service held by colonists on August 9, 1607, to give thanks for a safe voyage led by George Popham.

Connecticut may be the first state to set aside an official annual day of general thanksgiving.  Some records claim the first proclamation came on September 18, 1639.

In 1630, the Massachusetts Bay Colony observed a special day of prayer that is now often called the “First Thanksgiving.”  Even earlier in Florida, a small colony of French Huguenots living near present-day Jacksonville noted a special thanksgiving prayer.

Virginians are convinced their ancestors celebrated the first Thanksgiving when Jamestown settlers in 1610 held a religious service and a feast honoring their survival of a harsh winter.

President Abraham Lincoln may have declared the first official Thanksgiving holiday in 1863.  But, along with Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts and Virginia, the states of New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Vermont all had annual thanksgiving observances before the 19th century.  New York joined them in 1817, and soon afterwards Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Michigan and Wisconsin followed.

Centuries ago, our ancestors didn’t think much about the far future – not to the same degree we do now.  They were glad to survive one day at a time.  Feasts of thanksgiving – surviving a harsh winter, a summer, or a monsoon – were always reasons to celebrate.  Our predecessors understood how dependent they were upon the world’s natural elements; they never felt they could control the wind and the rain.  They were at nature’s mercy.  And, everyone should be thankful for that.

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November 21, 2012 · 7:07 PM

Barack Obama – The Unintentional Martyr

From the moment Barack Obama declared his campaign for president in 2007, the hate mongrels came out of the sewers and began attacking him.  That happens every election cycle here in the United States.  But, this time was different.  It became particularly vicious.  The level of animosity was so intense the Secret Service granted him protection almost immediately.  It was the earliest in which the agency had ever provided security to a presidential candidate.  Technically, Hillary Clinton holds that record, but – as a former First Lady – she already had Secret Service protection.  Then, Obama won, and the hate got worst.

I think it shocked many old time politicians – especially in the Southeast – that even a half-blooded Negro could attain the highest elected office in the nation.  Yes, in most cases, it really is about race.  But, it appalled many in the old guard; the self-proclaimed protectorates of all that is sacred and holy in America who cry freedom and independence for everyone in this great land, but – deep down inside – only reserve it for a handful of select individuals.

This kind of sentiment was the genesis for the “birther” movement and ultimately the Tea Party crowd.  They didn’t like that Barack Obama’s father had been born in Kenya, a nation on Africa’s eastern flank.  But, although his mother was born and raised in Kansas, the birther clan insisted the junior Obama was born in Kenya, too; that his parents had met here in the U.S. and then – for some ungodly reason – traveled all the way back to Kenya to have their son and then, returned to the United States.  In other words, it’s part of some vast left-wing conspiracy.  Notice the birther goons didn’t highlight the fact that John McCain was born in the Panama Canal Zone, or make an issue of the fact Mitt Romney’s father was born in México.  In the minds of these people, it seems Latin America is a despicable entity on the same scale as Africa.

Many Black Americans collectively shook their heads at the fiasco.  It’s an extension of the belief that many Blacks – as well as others – always get special treatment from the federal government; that things are handed to them on a silver platter and they really haven’t had to work for it.  In other words, they’ve done something outside of the norm to achieve their success.  It’s not genuine; it’s manufactured.  They couldn’t possibly have done it on their own; they had to have help.  Whenever disenfranchised groups have succeeded in business or politics, questions often fall upon the veracity of their accomplishments.  Did they really do all that work?  They couldn’t possibly have the same degree of intellect and fortitude as White males.  It’s affirmative action gone awry.

Thus, when Obama won in 2008, many of the old guard claimed that something dubious must have occurred.  I suspect if Obama had been a full-blooded Caucasian whose father was born in Europe, we wouldn’t be having this discourse.  But, even if, say, he was a full-blooded Negro whose father had been born in Nashville or Atlanta with the surname Smith, I’m sure someone somewhere would cry foul.  Obama just can’t win that particular battle.  Bigotry is as tough as a diamond sometimes; it takes so much pressure to break it.

But, despite the unpleasant nature of it all, it’s a necessary dilemma; a requisite bad chapter for our nation to undergo as we continue our march forward.  We’ll probably encounter this same mess with the first Hispanic president (Ann Coulter’s worst nightmare), the first Native American president, the first Asian, the first female, the first Jewish, the first Muslim, the first Hindu, and the first openly gay or lesbian.  They’ll all face similar angst from the old guard who just don’t like the fact America is becoming more diverse and can’t believe that anyone aside from White heterosexual Christian males are actually able to lead the richest, most powerful country on Earth.  Never mind that White heterosexual Christian males are, in fact, a demographic minority in the U.S. and have been for some time.  So Barack Obama has become a martyr of sorts in the name of true American freedom.  He’s been crucified and demonized more than any other Chief Executive.  He’s endured more disrespect – from Donald Trump refusing to look at a copy of Obama’s birth certificate to Jan Brewer jutting a crooked finger into the president’s face and later crying that he “intimidated” her.

And, in a very sad way, it has to happen.  It’s part of our growth and maturity as a nation.  The pathways toward equality and freedom are paved with rocks, not velvet.

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November 11, 2012 · 9:40 PM

In Defense of White Men

Okay, can we get past the race thing when it comes to elections here in the U.S.?  As a people, haven’t we risen above such petty squabbles?  Haven’t two centuries worth of civil rights taught us race and gender really aren’t qualifications for public office?  I guess not.  Well…at least not in some circles.  Here lately, White men have been getting a bum rap from left-wing academics; the self-appointed protectorates of 21st century America.  But, I’m here to say the rest of us can think for ourselves – and that White men aren’t always the enemy.

After all, I’m a mostly White guy myself.  Both my grandfathers were White, e.g. Caucasian.  My paternal was Spaniard (yes, full-blooded Spanish people are White!), while my maternal was German.  And, German is just about as White as you can get; if you get any Whiter than that, you’re not White – you’re albino.  Both my grandmothers were mixed Spaniard and Mexican Indian.  And, it’s the latter two groups who comprise the contemporary Hispanic population that had such an impact on this year’s presidential elections.  They’re the group who have been treated as recent arrivals in America, but – as a people – have actually been here long before the U.S. was born.  They’re also the ones who’ve reacted with the same level of racial virulence whenever I mention my German grandfather as the White kids reacted to my Spanish surname when I was in high school – years ago!  Yes, some Hispanics – like some Negroes – are as bigoted as a drunken Glenn Beck at a NASCAR rally.  Seriously!  Who would have thought they’d be my worst adversary?  Well, sometimes they are.  I’ve been called a “coconut,” which only bothers me because I don’t like coconut.  But, I still think it’s kind of funny when Hispanics start talking about “White people” disparagingly.  Unless they’re full-blooded Indians, they need to shove a coconut in their self-righteous mouths.

But, consider this.  White males helped to build this country and – despite all the racial angst – also helped to break down the walls of segregation.  President Harry S. Truman, for example, ended racial segregation in the U.S. military.  President John F. Kennedy jumpstarted the modern civil rights movement, and his successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, signed the 1965 Voting Rights Act into law.  Other White males have done their part to make America a better place for everyone; whether it’s hiring non-Whites for a job other Whites thought they couldn’t or shouldn’t do, or teaching some non-White kid how to read and write.  Ignore the likes of Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh for a while.  They’re not models for the White American male.  Most White men are decent, hard-working people who take care of their families and mind their own business.  Many of them are part of that 47% that Mitt Romney disparaged.  They don’t have houses with elevators for their cars and they can’t afford a luxury yacht.

A few of my closest friends are White males.  They’re around my age and they’re tired of being scapegoated for every transgression non-Whites have endured throughout American history.  Blacks and Hispanics don’t want to be automatically connected to the more dubious elements of our respective racial groups.  I loathe being cast alongside illegal Mexican immigrants, even though México is where my mother and both my grandmothers were born.  Most White men, therefore, don’t want to be grouped with the morons who burn crosses on people’s front lawns.  White men aren’t slipping into predominantly Black neighborhoods and shoving drugs into the hands of the community’s youth.  White men aren’t sneaking onto Indian reservations and surreptitiously exchanging sodas with beer in the convenience stores.

I often view racial discord in the same context as gender.  As a 49-year-old man, it’s not my fault women couldn’t vote until 1920, or have a legal abortion until 1973.  I wasn’t alive in 1920 and I was only 9 when Roe v. Wade became law.  How the hell am I supposed to answer for the transgressions of my male ancestors?  I can’t and I won’t!  Guilt by association is a precarious thing.  It just creates more anger.

In case you’ve forgotten, Barack Obama isn’t necessarily our first Black president; he’s actually our first biracial president.  People keep forgetting his Caucasian half.  His mother was a White-American, born and raised in the United States.  That she fell in love with and married a Negro man in the early 1960s is amazing unto itself.  So, if some White folks can’t get past Obama’s Negro side – just as some Black folks can’t get past his Caucasian side – then that’s their problem!

They all need to get over it.  If they don’t, they’ll find themselves in the same bucket as 8-track tape players and – pardon the cheap analogy – black and white TVs.  We really just need to move beyond that race thing.  It’s not helping us anymore.  It’s really not.  This is the 21st century, and the Human Genome Project has proven we’re all pretty much related on a blood level.  And, human blood is only one color.  Now, who has a problem with that?!

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