April 2023 -

It is more blessed to give…

Being charitable makes you feel good, and sometimes sad.

I was a twenty something bouncing from job to job just to pay rent in San Diego and keep beer in the fridge. I had moved in with a college buddy who was studying law. Our lifestyle in the modest, working-class neighborhood we called home was a bit Bohemian, and in some ways, it was like we never left college.

My roommate, Patrick, noticed we were swearing… a lot. Pat suggested we set up a “swear jar.” Anytime one of us would swear, we had to put a quarter in the jar. The idea was to fill up the jar and buy beer with the swearing fines.

The jar started to fill up fast. We got a bigger jar. When the bigger jar was nearly full, Pat had another idea. Instead of buying beer with the swear jar proceeds, he suggested driving to a nearby Gemco store (a membership store before Price Club and Costco arrived) and buy food staples to donate to the orphanage in Tecate, Mexico, just across the border. Done and done.

Pat and I walked through the neighborhood and asked our neighbors if they had anything to donate to the orphanage. We got odds and ends like a nightstand, an electric fan, a bed frame, and other assorted stuff. We drove his pick-up to Gemco and bought a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of food… large bags of rice, beans, and flour plus a lot of plain, white-labeled generic canned goods.

The next Saturday, we packed up and drove about an hour and a half to Tecate. The town was kinda like a movie set… a quiet pueblo with plenty of shops and restaurants but not much traffic. We had a problem… we didn’t know where the orphanage was located. We stopped at the police station. Again, I’m getting the feeling we’re on a movie set… the police station was straight out of a Sam Peckinpah film. A couple of police officers, both wearing mismatched shades of khaki uniforms, were busy doing paperwork. I noticed a rifle rack with an assortment of rifles of different calibers plus a couple of shotguns in the corner. We got the attention of the police sergeant on duty.

Uh-oh… now we have a language problem… we know a little Spanish but how do we ask for directions to the orphanage? Pat and I started brainstorming as El Sargento looked on patiently. OK… let’s start with “dónde” for “where.” Hmmm… then how would we say building or house… OK, that’s “la casa.” We already knew that “niños” meant children. We’re getting close… “Dónde la casa para niños?” We must have looked like two dumb gringos to the supervisor trying to sound out a simple question in Spanish. I’m trying to figure out how to say children without families when Pat says… “sin familias.” Thank God for cognates! We turned to Sargento and asked in unison… “Dónde esta la casa para niños sin familias?” The police supervisor looked at us and responded in English, “Do you mean orphanage?” Pat and I were a little shocked. Were we supposed to laugh or act deferential? We smiled and said… “Si!” He gave us directions to the orphanage. We explained, in English, we were delivering supplies to the nuns at the orphanage. He smiled and said… “Gracias.”

Ten minutes later we were driving down a rutted road to a couple of nondescript tan buildings. Kids and a couple of nuns came out of nowhere. It was early spring, but the nuns told us that earlier, heavy rains had made roads in the area impassable until a week or so ago. We were the first people that year to bring supplies and donations to the orphanage.

Kids were everywhere. Pat and I unloaded the back of the pick-up. Pat is solidly built and he sports a shock of blond curly hair. I pointed to Pat and said to the kids, “Mi amigo… El Rubio!” The kids roared with laughter. It felt good helping these “niños sin familias.” Then, one girl walked up with a huge smile. She was 8 maybe 9 years old. I didn’t notice at first, but when she turned her head, I could see a golf ball sized tumor on her cheek below her right eye. I was overcome by feelings about what her life must be like. Would she get medical care? Do the other kids tease her? I was still feeling good about helping, but I turned to Pat and said, “Let’s go.” The kids waved goodbye to us for a long time as we drove away on that rutted road.

Three forms of violence

First published in “The Daily Journal,” July 3, 2017, https://www.smdailyjournal.com/opinion/guest_perspectives/three-forms-of-violence/article_6efac8d2-5f80-11e7-9eb4-5362c1049fcd.html

In 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King asked supporters in Birmingham, Alabama, to take a nonviolence pledge. The pledge was printed on a card, and it included: refrain from the violence of fist, tongue or heart. We can find all three forms of violence in the Otto Warmbier story. The violence of fist and heart were supplied by a ruthless authoritarian regime. However, violence of the tongue came from a surprising place.

In January 2016, Otto Warmbier was arrested for taking a North Korean propaganda poster from a hotel room. During nearly 18 months of captivity, Otto suffered psychological and physical abuse at the hands of North Korean authorities. On June 13, 2017, Otto Warmbier, 22, returned to the United States in a coma; he never regained consciousness. He died on June 19 from a neurological injury inflicted by the North Koreans.

On June 21, two days after Warmbier succumbed to injuries from cruel and unusual punishment, University of Delaware adjunct anthropology professor Katherine Dettwyler posted on Facebook that Warmbier “got what he deserved.” She wrote that Warmbier was “typical of a mindset of a lot of the young, white, rich, clueless males who come into my classes.” Followed by, “His parents ultimately are to blame for his growing up thinking he could get away with whatever he wanted… Not so much in North Korea…”

I read the story about Dettwyler’s comments on June 24. Her violence of the tongue pushed me beyond anger and to a place of indescribable sadness. I found her University of Delaware email address, and I sent her the following…

“Ms. Dettwyler, I’m sure you have received a huge amount of correspondence laced with expletives and threats concerning your comments about Otto Warmbier’s death, but this email will not be one of them.

I am not young or rich, but I am a white male. While the Otto Warmbiers of the world who enter your class may be clueless, I am not. I can see you for what you are… an intelligent but bitter woman who is in the wrong profession. I have not been in your classroom, but many of your students agree with that assessment. They find you rude, offensive, and annoying. There’s nothing wrong with being opinionated, but I’m guessing you have little time for any opinions in class but your own.

Remember, words have meaning. Yes, you can state your opinion in class and on social media even when you say things that are hateful and insensitive. Thankfully, the First Amendment allows you to do so. However, there may be negative consequences from your academic community for saying such things. Why? Because such speech does not represent that community’s values, and saying Otto Warmbier “got what he deserved” is clearly inconsistent with the University of Delaware’s mission to educate and prepare young people for the world beyond graduation.

Your students should finish your class with a greater understanding of anthropology plus a greater sense of purpose and a feeling that they belong to a special community of persons who want to make a positive difference. What is your greater sense of purpose? Where is your special community? How are you making a positive difference?

As I said earlier, you are an intelligent but bitter woman who is in the wrong profession. That’s a bold statement, but it’s true. You’re not pouring the knowledge and wisdom of anthropology out for your students; you’re pouring feelings of self-importance and self-gratification into your own ego. That’s the wrong reason to enter the classroom as a teacher.

If you don’t love your students, then you should find another profession. How much love do you have for the Otto Warmbiers of the world?”

End of email text.

I thought I would feel better after sending the email. I didn’t… the sadness was still there. The next day, June 25, University of Delaware officials announced that Dettwyler will not be rehired to teach classes at the school, but that is not the end of Otto’s story or the lessons to be learned from it. Ms. Dettwyler learned there is a consequence for hateful speech. Even if she does not issue an apology, the violence of the tongue should not be visited upon her. The larger lesson… maybe if the blue vs. red or D vs. R rhetoric becomes more civil, we can tame violence of the tongue. If we can do that, maybe other forms of violence can be tamed, too.