On Captain Kirk

As a boy I was always inspired by heroes; one of my favorite heroes was Captain James T. Kirk of Star Trek. He saved not only the world and our galaxy but even the space-time continuum and humpback whales. My love of adventure and science fiction grew from watching Captain Kirk in classic films like the Wrath of Khan or the 1967 TV episode the “Arena.” There is nothing like a good mix of adventure and futuristic Sci-Fi technology.

One thing that always amazed me about Captain Kirk was his communicator. If you watch the early episodes from the sixties, you will see his communicator looked and acted exactly like a cell phone. I would even argue we have cell phones today because of Star Trek. The communicator was exactly like a cell phone in all but one aspect. It never seemed to go off at the wrong moment. It never, ever started blasting “Who let the dogs out?” and Captain Kirk never told his arch-enemy Kahn, “Hold on a sec, I have to get this.”

It seems absurd to imagine our heroes acting in such ways, but we ourselves don’t have any problem with it. We, as a society, need to rethink how we use communicators. Our cell phones interrupt in class, at work, and during church. I am as guilty as the next in having bad cell phone etiquette. What is worse, I never thought much of it, or if I did give it a second thought, I justified my actions. It is very easy to think a few interruptions are just the price we pay for progress. No one wants to be using strings and cans to communicate, and I am in no way an old curmudgeon who shuns technology. I love my iPhone. I have come to realize, however, how we use our cell phones reflects a bit about who we are. It is an ugly reflection.

To focus in on the problem, let us examine cell phone use in the classroom. We can use it as a microcosm of the bigger picture. On the surface the problem seems to be one of manners. Manners are a lost virtue in our society. They are the rules and customs we use to interact with each other and the medium for transferring respect. They are the visible manifestation of our ethics and values. Cell phones ringing out in class is a clear indicator that there is no longer a social norm forbidding interruptions in class. This in turn reflects how much we value education and our fellow students; we don’t respect either by the way we use our cell phones.

The simple do not see the value in manners. They only see the rules. “Don’t put your elbows on the table”, “Don’t wear your hat indoors”, “Don’t use your phone during class.” These rules become a random collection of archaic social restrictions; a bunch of rules made by old people who don’t want anyone to have fun. Peter Leithart says that, “Manners have a moral dimension but not all rules of manner are moral laws.” The simple understand the second part of his statement, but not the first. They don’t understand the moral dimension and only think of the rules.

There is a legitimate danger in one-for-one correlations of morals and manners, but that is not the ditch we find ourselves in. Manners, almost non-existent today, serve a deeper social purpose than the simple can understand. They are not a form of blind legalism enforced by the old. They guard us against fracturing important social bonds and allow us to think of others more than ourselves. They are, at the same time, both the window dressings and the steel girders of a healthy society.

The deeper we investigate the problem of cell phone use in class, the more we see it is not only about rudeness and manners. The heart of the problem is a much more dangerous unhealthy self-centeredness. I came to this conclusion not by any great deep revelation but by observing friends posting on Facebook while in class. Skip past how rude and distracting this is for the rest of the class, it was the messages they wrote that troubled me. The messages were all about how bad the class was and how the teacher was wrong about this or that. Do you see the danger?

The student has inverted the relationship with the teacher. The student, instead of respecting his own inferiority and having a humble thirst to learn, has become the judge and ruler over the class. It is no longer about learning what you can from a teacher; it is about telling all your friends about how un-entertained you are. A rude misuse of a cell phone and the ability to text allows everything to become about the student. They short circuit their own learning process even though “…it is the duty of the pupil to show himself teachable” according to Quintilian.

The classroom is not the only place this happens. I know of more than one friend who is constantly texting in all social occasions. Texting becomes more important than the people they are actually socializing with. This is because texting allows them to be the center of their own attention; a conversation with others does not. The text is addressed to them and them only; they always get to dominate the conversation. This is what I mean by an unhealthy self-centeredness, a simple inability to see past one’s own self and the consequences of actions. Our daily use of cell phones exposes both our aversion to manners and our deep rooted selfishness.

The old soldier in me has an easy fix. Outlaw all phones in class; simple, easy and effective. Enforce manners! If people cannot govern themselves the school should do it for them. Flog them all. We would be better off if the school had more backbone and the discipline to put an end to this rude behavior. I could learn more without interruptions, and students who text during class might be forced to pay attention.

The budding political scientist in me looks deeper and knows more rules will only cure the symptoms and not the root cause of our problem. Outlawing phones in class will not cause self-centered, simple minded people to think outside of their narrow horizons. The way to get people to expand their social consciousness is to be social with them. By building healthy relationships, we can teach people to look past themselves. By being good friends, we can teach the true worth of manners. The real fix is outside the class room.

How we use our cell phones is a reflection of our values. Changing our phone habits will improve our classrooms only slightly. If we take a deeper approach and strive to improve our social values, then we will see real benefits. The golden rule will not be like El Dorado, an unattainable dream. The gap between who we are and who our heroes are might not be as vast as we think. The future of Captain Kirk and communicators that don’t interrupt might not be so fantastic. So let’s turn off our cell phones and see what adventures the future might hold.

On Blame

As I look around my world with a writer’s curiosity, I cannot help but see an ugly expression of man’s lower qualities—shifting blame. It can be called by many names: pointing fingers, shirking, dodging, fudging, skirting; it is all the same thing, transferring the responsibility of your own actions onto someone or something else. When we do it in the realm of family and finances, it can lead us down a ruinous path. It also might be the most sublime and seductive character flaw a man can have. After all, it’s not your fault you have the flaw.

If you wholeheartedly agree and have consequently already started thinking of someone you know who fits the mold of a shirker (a family member or politician?), then you have missed the direction of my observation. We all know blame shifting is a moral quicksand, yet we still do it; this phenomenon is worth some thought. If it is quicksand, why are we all busy building sandcastles? Why is our collective lack of personal responsibility destroying our families and economy? I, sadly, can’t say I am different. Why do I dodge blame? Why don’t I take more responsibility for my own actions? We are like children pulling at loose strings, unaware that we are unraveling the very fabric of our society.

The biggest thread we unravel belongs to family. This has been on my mind lately because my wedding ring is about forty days old. I boldly got married in the age of no-fault divorces. The very name of these divorces implies shifting blame and not taking responsibility. In this case we shift the blame by saying there is no blame. What a dangerous idea. No one is held responsible for breaking the vows with which they bound themselves. I am not arguing for a world without divorce; however, the very ease with which we can break our covenant, our contract, our promise to each other might be related to the epidemic levels of divorce we have in this nation. Think for moment of your friends who have been through a divorce and the sad results. I know only a small handful of friends who have benefited from divorce; for the majority it is a painful, bitter experience. Maybe we should rethink what responsibility means in marriage.

Another area where responsibility is shirked is in the realm of money. Unless you have been studying earthworm burrowing patterns in Mongolia for the last few years, you are probably aware of the economic crisis we face as a nation. Everyone is quick to point the finger at the cause; few are quick to say they are at fault. I am amazed at how many times I have heard someone say, “The bank sold me a house I could not afford.” What an astounding statement. Why is it not, “I bought a house I could not afford,” or, “I bought a new car I could not afford,” or, “I bought a plasma TV I could not afford”? Our economy is a house of cards built on debt. We act surprised at a collapse in order to make it easier in shifting the blame away from our own spending habits. We look to blame the banks because they do have mistakes they need to be held accountable for. Unfortunately, while blaming the banks might improve our banking system, it will do nothing to improve our own economic happiness. Blaming others will not help us pay a single bill or stop that next frivolous credit card purchase.

This was very true in my own life. At the age of twenty-seven, I had sixteen thousands dollars of debt to my name and not much else. My money and my future were not my own; they belonged to my debt. As much as I wanted to marry my girlfriend, I could not. I had no means to do so. All the blaming in the world would not get me any closer to my goal. My family and my economics both suffered until I took responsibility for my actions. There was no one left to blame but myself.

My story has a happy ending; I got a job overseas, paid off my debt, and married my girlfriend by the age of twenty-nine. I now have close to three thousand dollars in a savings account and am going to school full time—yet my story is not over.

As I come to a close, I realize I wrote this as much for myself as for any reader. Maybe that is part of the solution. Maybe we need to reflect on ourselves more than on others. Maybe we should be concerned more with the outcome of our own actions then with finding ways to blame others. If my marriage is to avoid divorce, and my finances to remain healthy, I must stand diligently vigilant against the easy path of seeking others to blame for my choices. I find no greater solution then, “It is my fault.”

On Home (A speech)

My favorite place is home; home—not an exotic location or a mythical land. I can’t tell you about Las Vegas or the mountains of Mordor. I can’t spin a wild adventure for you; I can only tell you of mundane, unromantic home.

My love of home started early. My childhood was filled with the importance of home. It was not that we had a picturesque stately home or the all-American farm house. In fact, we moved all the time. One of my most prominent childhood memories is the moving van and boxes as far as the eye could see. One year we lived in a large house with a large pound, another year we lived in my grandma’s basement. What made home important was our family. It was strong family that defined my childhood, not the houses we passed through.

While my childhood built a foundation, it was not till I traveled to the dark heart of the Middle East that I truly understood the blessings of home. I still remember clearly our platoon Sergeant ordering us all to head back to the house at the end of our patrols. It was one of the most meaningful word phrases of my life—“Head back to the house.” Each and every day we would go out into a city ruled by violence and hate. Each and every day we all tried make it, “back to the house.” Some days it was a goal unaccomplished. After a year of days, those of us who were left returned again to our homes; I made it back to my house. Only when death is a constant companion do you understand the safety of home.

Today, though, if you ask me why home is my favorite place, it not because of memories and feelings of safety. It is much more personal and simple. Now when I come home after a long day of school I find dinner waiting for me. My home is not filled with silent books and abstract internet searches. I find conversation, interesting and complex. Old chores like washing dishes become an exercise in companionship. My house breathes life and personality; my own house has become a home. Home is where my wife is. My favorite place is home.

On Sheep

Ah…Facebook, you are a constant muse. If my pen runs dry I can just look to you for inspiration and wisdom.

I started noticing women posting colors yesterday. I thought nothing of it; I assumed it was some meaningless posting (like song lyrics without context). My wife dug a little deeper and informed me that it was for a cause. Women were posting their bra color to raise awareness for breast cancer. I let it go until I saw my own sister’s bra color on Facebook. I decided enough is enough. Please allow me to vent my anger over this phenomenon.

I am already aware of cancer. I know a friend who has breast cancer. My nephew almost died of cancer and my grandmother did. To me it is not some trite cause you can support by telling me your underwear color. Can anything be more insulting, trivializing such a heartbreaking disease? Sorry. You cannot get to feel good about helping a cause unless you do something concrete to help. Please give money or time to help fight the disease not meaningless gestures. Don’t cheapen yourselves or the pain felt by many families with empty words. I know what it’s like to hear people say, “Support the troops” and watch as they go about there daily lives as if nothing is different. I hate cheap and empty words.

The deeper anger I feel is how these postings are degrading to women. Moreover, the women who are degrading themselves don’t even notice. Can you only express yourself through your sexuality? It seems so as I read over and over each girl telling the world the color and style of her bra. Think about this from my point of view. I will turn thirty this summer. I do not want to think about what bra a seventeen-year-old girl is wearing. It is disgusting for me to think of such things, yet there it is out in a public arena for all to dwell on. I can understand a seventeen-year-old girl not understanding her sexuality because it is new to her. What really irks me is how older women of wisdom and stature, who should guard against such foolishness, have also posted. You should know better. You should know the power of your sexuality.

I want to get this point across because I will not be part of degrading women. I can’t stand it. I will further explain the mind of a man for women who think this is no big deal; after all, it’s just a bra. Women, after posting your bra color, the next man you engage in conversation (even when you have something important to say like asking for cancer research donations) will be thinking to himself: “I wonder what color her bra is today. I wonder if it has lace. I wonder what her nipples look like.” And don’t go thinking it will be some sleaze ball creep either; it will be a man of character. He probably doesn’t even really want to think of you sexually but he is designed to. The more character a man has the more he appreciates beauty and there is no greater beauty then a woman’s form.

A man of character has to deny himself until the proper time to enjoy such great beauty. Some men are better at this than others. When sexually intimate images like a bra color is given out, they spark the imagination of a man. I don’t excuse a man of his actions, but it seems to me that Facebook posters don’t understand the consequences of theirs. Don’t make it any harder for a man to hold you in respect and honor.

Just so I don’t sound too harsh and sexist. What of all the boys who posted jokes or fake colors of their own? They are the fools. They trivialize the very people they should honor, and degrade those they should protect. They are not even worth the time it takes to write about them.

I thought it was very telling that one poster kept posting “SUPORT THE CAUSE” over and over any time a color was added to the collage of immaturity. At least someone understood the people were just acting as sheep following those in front of them. If this can happen on Facebook, what of our electoral process? What of our democracy?

On War

The problem with explosions is that I participated in one, more than one actually. If you really want to know, one almost killed me on New Year’s Day, 2005. It was a few seconds late and a few shrapnel pieces short of the ending credits for me. It did hurt like hell though and I had a gimp limp for about a month. Someone almost got that prize money for giving me the hard good-bye.

This all came searing back into to my brain while watching Sherlock Holmes in the theater. It was the brilliantly-filmed, slow-motion, multiple explosion scene that made me think. While I should go into a long diatribe about how real explosions don’t let you get up and run through them, I won’t. What struck my mind, as I watched the flames reach out and grasp for the hero, was how explosions—the premier expression of violence in our day—have become our entertainment. Is this the price we pay for fighting wars year after year without end? Our entertainment becomes confused with our nightly news? The news and movies are filled with the same explosions therefore they must be the same. Maybe I read too much into it all but I have had a very intimate experience with a very real explosion. I hope you only watch the romanticized version on the big screen. Even more, I hope you can still distinguish between the two. I don’t want to live in a world where you can’t.

Yet what really bothered me as I watched the story unfold is how our hero is also a simple expression of violence. Sherlock Holmes, one of fiction’s great intellectual heroes, is reduced to using his logic and deductive skill to maim and bully—we call that cool. He is reduced to a back room brawler who destroys out of boredom. Does he fight evil? No, just any weaker than himself for a night's sport. Has man’s ability to think become only expressible through violence? Is that what we have become as American men? What ever happened to the idea of the common good and our heroes standing up for the weak? Why don’t our heroes use intellect to create more and destroy less? I am so tired of the anti-hero. Can I please have one hero I can look up to and strive to be like?

I could go on about this more but I am tired of asking questions; I want to go eat some popcorn and watch Gran Torino.

On Money

Driving home just the other night I was offered 300 million dollars. Contrary to my natural impulses, I had to decline. It was not some pious act on my part, and I have not taken any vows of poverty to the best of my recollection; I just simply could not stop and buy the lottery ticket needed to say yes to the millions of dollars. I had to get home for dinner.

Almost every day I drive by a giant billboard with great, shining, red numbers. The numbers tell the whole world of the wonderful sum of money to be won. Tonight it was only twenty million. TWENTY MILLION! That sum could change my life. If I look at those bright numbers too long they begin to tease me about the money I don’t have in my account. They start mocking me that I have never made more than thirty thousand in a year. I wonder how many years it would take for me to earn twenty million. The bright red numbers even know I don’t have a fulltime job right now. They know the great and grand things I would do with such a payday. I would be the nicest millionaire ever.

How do those large bright numbers speak so eloquently to my heart? How do they connect with me so well? Why do they speak so clearly with out saying a word? The reason escapes me for a moment, then I realize why—envy. The signs placed all over the city are simply rubbing it in that I don’t have wealth and power. The sign assumes I am unhappy with my meager means. It hopes that I, like most men of my generation, don’t have a moral character that rejects envy. The sign is a trap for those who cannot see past tomorrow. It preys on my shortsightedness and whispers to my lusts for wealth.

I am lucky the flow of traffic moved me out of the view of the sign and closer to home. I spent the rest of my drive thinking about money. Of course, I would love the twenty million dollars to just fall into my lap, but I understand it is a fool’s game. In my younger days I spent all my money on things of little or no value. This is easy to prove to myself. I list all the things in my house right now and try to think of how many were bought in my early twenties. Not much. I don’t want to go back to those days of waste. A lottery ticket would be merely one more purchase of no value that keeps me from accomplishing my real goals.

If the millions are a pipe dream, then what are my true goals? That’s the question, isn’t it? Is there a better option with better odds? What are my goals? Are they more they just random chance. This is what I came up with on the drive home.

1. I want to sell 100,000 copies of my wife’s books.

2. I want to save 10,000 dollars this year.

3. I want to save 25,000 dollars for a rainy day.

4. I want to buy a house without debt.

5. I want to invest in business.

These are goals within reach for a man of my talents. I know the odds are far better then what is offered by the giant red numbers. Even better, they are goals I hope to accomplish by hard work and fortitude. It is now clear to me buying that lotto ticket will make each goal much, much harder to reach. A lottery ticket would just be another wasted dream, and I have bigger dreams now. More than dreams, I have goals.

Besides, dinner is on the table waiting and my wife will be happy to see me. She just hopes I don’t talk all dinner about money; it bores her to death.

On Living

I am a killer. I don’t mean to say I am a Jeffery Dahmer or a Charles Manson. I am not a murderer even though some may try to label me as such. I killed as a professional and I was under the rule of law. It was a skill set; a job. I was a Sniper. I ruled the battlefield and my enemies feared me. I even had a price on my head.

It’s an odd thing to write down, now that I think about it. What I mean to say is this; I was educated and trained in the art of killing. I took the classes and practiced every day. I was shaped and forged. Take my word for it—the training worked. I am undefeated in gunfights; I guess that is a little obvious since I am sitting here writing.

Why start this blog? Why add to the billions of words already floating around the Internet? It is simple really. The State taught me how to destroy. I am good at it. Not the best but not the worst either. My wife, on the other hand, is an artist in the best sense of the word. She creates beauty. She has crafted a story and written it down as a novel. Her art hangs on the wall of our little apartment. Think about it, her womb can even bring a new life into this world. I only ended life. That is not enough for me. I am past the days of my youth when I thought myself indestructible and my every action righteous. I want to create something and I have chosen to do so with words. If you could see me draw or hear me sing a tune you would know why the pen is my outlet. With this blog I hope to learn a mastery over words. I want to become as skilled a wordsmith as I was a marksman. I strive for the same commitment to precision. In this day and age can one still be thought of as a man of letters?

Words have meanings. I chose the title of my blog to express an idea. When I was fifteen I read Carl Von Clausewitz’s On War. It is the classic manual of war. After experiencing a war I was left with the strong desire to read a manual on life. That is what I decided to write about, life. The blessings and curses of the world we live in has become my muse.

I choose to write essays because of the words of E.B White: “The essay, although a relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines, raises its own problems, and these disciplines and problems soon became apparent and (we all hope) act as a deterrent to anyone wielding a pen merely because he entertains random thoughts or is in a happy or wandering mood.”

Twitter is no place for thoughts that struggle in my consciousness. I need a bigger canvas. Welcome to my canvas.