ACAB… seriously?

ACAB… seriously?

I have seen sadness.

Not all stories can be lighthearted and have storybook endings… I have seen great human suffering. My last assignment as a police officer was riding motorcycles; it is the most fun you can have as a cop. However, there is a downside. Motor officers investigate fatal traffic collisions. Those investigations are serious and detailed reports of what happened to cause a collision and how that collision contributed to someone being killed. The District Attorney may want to prosecute the person responsible for the collision for homicide, and the prosecutor will need a thorough investigation to proceed.

It’s about 8 pm on a cool October evening. The call came to me at home… a crash with multiple fatalities. I reported to the station then drove with another motor officer to the scene. Horrific. Six young people crammed into an older Honda… two had been transported to the hospital but four dead were still in the car. The deceased included a 23-year-old male, two 19-year-old males, and a 16-year-old girl. Only minutes before the collision, they had been drinking… beer and tequila.

During their impromptu party in a nearby cul-de-sac, the 19-year-old driver received a call from his girlfriend who was also the mother of his child. They argued about him seeing another young woman. He got angry, hung up, and told everyone to get into the car. They did.

The car had three different makes of tires and different wheels. The driver accelerated down a long straightaway. Traveling more than 70 mph, he lost control and the Honda struck a dump truck. Four dead instantly. One teen male survived with serious head injuries. The other survivor was an 18-year-old girl. She was small in stature. Her sister, the 16-year-old who died in the crash, was a physically much larger person. The younger, larger girl was sitting on her 18-year-old sister’s lap in the middle of the rear seat at the moment of impact. The teen boy on the 18-year-old’s left sustained debilitating head injuries. The oldest male of the group was seated on her right at the point where the Honda struck the dump truck. His head injuries were even greater. He died instantly. Sad. The larger 16-year-old girl actually functioned as a human shield for her smaller sister. The first officer to respond… a rookie… found the gruesome scene. The 18-year-old girl was the only conscious person in the car. She was hysterical because she was trapped and unable to move with her dead sister on top of her. All the rookie could do was talk to her soothingly until more help arrived.

I looked into the Honda. I could see that the 23-year-old with the grisly skull damage bore the brunt of the tremendous force of the collision. But the 16-year-old girl on the backseat and the two 19-year-old males in the front seats looked peaceful… almost as if they were sleeping. Then I noticed the boys in the front seats had broken limbs. The crash was violent and did its work quickly. The coroner arrived and removed the victims. The motor officers including myself continued processing the scene. This report would not be used in a prosecution.

Later, I interviewed the 18-year-old girl. She was guarded and uncomfortable because she thought she would get in trouble if she admitted she had been drinking. I told her that she was not in trouble with the police… I just needed to know what happened before the Honda struck the dump truck. She mentioned the phone call to the driver and that he appeared to be angry. I asked if he was using the phone while driving. No. I really wanted to know where the driver bought the beer and tequila. The 18-year-old relaxed a bit. She didn’t know where he obtained the alcohol; it was already in the car when he picked her up.

While at the station the next day, the sister of the 23-year-old who died due to extensive head trauma came to see me. She was the spokesperson for the family. I told her that I was very sorry for her loss. She said that she wanted to see her brother. She was also in her mid-twenties and close to her brother. I paused then said it might not be a good idea to see him because he will not look like the brother she knows. She was determined, so I made arrangements for her to see him. About a week later, she called and thanked me for trying to dissuade her because he did not look the same. I told her that she can always remember him and the good times everyone enjoyed when they were with him.

Later that same week, the driver’s family came to the station to look at the impounded Honda. Just before impact, the driver tried to gain control of the car but overcorrected causing the Honda to turn hard left almost 180 degrees. It was still traveling at a high rate of speed when it struck the parked dump truck… no skid marks. The family stared at the mangled wreckage without speaking. The patriarch… moving slowly with age… shoulders rolled forward from a life of hard work… started to remove tools from the Honda’s trunk. I thought… wait, this car is still part of our investigation. The family cannot just take things out of the car. Then I thought… the tools would cost a lot to replace… money the family probably didn’t have. I stood by silently while he gathered the tools.

A call came in from the other deceased 19-year-old’s family. They needed money for funeral expenses and wondered if there was an insurance company involved so they could file a claim for burial costs. No… there was no insurance.

My involvement with the families of the four tragically dead young people took a toll on me. It was at that point I started to think about a career change. Seven months later, I left police work to teach US History to high school juniors. However, I would see more traffic carnage before my first day in the classroom. Some researchers believe all police officers suffer some level of post traumatic stress due to the demands and experiences on the job. They’re probably right.

Navy pilots are cocky…

Navy pilots are cocky…

Navy pilots are cocky. Tom Cruise got it right.

I flew P-3s in the Navy. The P-3 Orion flew primarily anti-submarine and surveillance missions. About 40 years ago, my squadron would send planes to Adak, Alaska to fly missions just off the Soviet coast. US flights conducted close to non-allied land masses were routinely coordinated through the Peacetime Aerial Reconnaissance Program (PARPRO). We would fly right up to an imaginary line which was offset by a couple of miles from the real “do not cross or else” line which kept us from violating sovereign Soviet airspace. It was crazy in those days… Navy, Air Force, Russian MiGs and Bears flying all around… lots of intercepts… plus surface ships lighting up fire control radars. It was intense. Quite a contrast to only 30 years ago when I flew off the Russian coast. My plane was the only military aircraft in the area that day. The Russians made one sweep with their air defense radar system as if to confirm… Oh, yeah. One Amerikanski P-3. No big deal. That’s all they could do. They didn’t have enough rubles to sustain the intense military coastal operations of the early 1980s.

Also, about 30 years ago, while flying as a Patrol Plane Commander with a reserve squadron out of Okinawa, my crew was tasked with flying off the North Korean coast. It was another PARPRO mission, and the Air Force would be tracking our flight profile. Most of this mission was flown at night. The North Koreans were going to test a rocket that could give them the capability to hit Japanese cities. My task was to fly just off the North Korean coast and monitor their naval surface ships. Those ships were zig zagging under the night cloud cover and waiting to race out into the Sea of Japan to recover the rocket. The North Koreans had an advantage. They knew beforehand where the rocket was supposed to splash down, but they were being coy. The North Korean ships were using the overcast to move close to the imaginary line they knew we would not cross. Plus, they were maneuvering between fishing boats to mask their movements. Bad news for them… the radar gear we had on board this P-3 cut through the clouds and fog to allow us to monitor every course change. It was like watching black and white TV. We could see them, but they didn’t know we could see them.

It was a long flight and the plane tasked to relief us would be launched out of Northern Japan… except that plane went hard down in preflight. I received orders to extend on station… in other words, keep flying. The back up to the relief plane went hard down, too. I received a new message… you guessed it… extend on station. A back up plane to the back up plane was finally launched. New orders… PLE. Keep flying to the Prudent Limit of Endurance, which really meant keep flying until there is only enough fuel to make it back to Okinawa. I radioed the operations officer in Okinawa with an updated time for when I planned to start my return flight to base. His response… can you stay longer?

I huddled up with my flight engineer and determined we could stay longer if we diverted and stopped for fuel on the way to Okinawa. I relayed an updated time for starting my return transit and filed a flight plan for an en route stop to add more fuel to my plane. Finally, the relief plane was getting close. We swapped info with the relief crew and set a course for our pit stop at Iwakuni. It was now daylight and the weather was beautiful. We got the extra fuel and headed back to Okinawa.

We landed. It had been a long, long day that started after dinner the night before. Remember that operations officer in Okinawa? We were in the same squadron but he had been recently promoted to commander so he outranked me. However, he was not a pilot and he didn’t really understand what calls to extend on station and PLE really meant. He shows up on my plane and starts chastising me. According to him, I’m in a heap of trouble because my mission briefing did not include a stop at Iwakuni. The newly minted commander reminded me the Air Force had been monitoring my flight and they lost track of my plane when I stopped for fuel… and USAF General Schmuckatelli wants answers… now!

OK. Here’s my answer… the operations officer directed me to extend on station, PLE then directed me to stay longer. I updated every flight extension with revised return times, and the last update included the stop in Iwakuni. If the Air Force wanted to know the location of my plane, all they had to do was contact Air Traffic Control. I added, “You can tell General Schmuckatelli what I just said or I will… after a beer or two with my crew. The operations officer turned and walked away. Nothing else was said. Yes, Navy pilots are cocky.

P.S. The North Koreans never launched that rocket.

Medical nightmare…

Medical nightmare…

Maybe my medical nightmare of the last year is over. Maybe. Mom passed away just before COVID hit. The emotionally draining stress was much more wearisome than physically caring for her. She was hospitalized four times in eight months. Her heart was strong but that last stay in the hospital was complicated by a lung problem, and that was too much for her. I put off grieving… that’s not a good idea… then my body gave out. The physical caught up and passed the emotional. First, a serious case of the flu. I usually just tough out colds and the occasional flu or go with over-the-counter meds… not this time. The crazy thing was… I could not see a doctor. I mean actually “see” a doctor. Due to COVID, only video consultations were allowed. The flu was quickly followed by a sinus infection and burst eardrum… more video visits. Then, I suffered an IT band failure. I didn’t know what an IT band was until it failed. The large tendon running down my right thigh was on FIRE! I’m not joking. The pain was immeasurably worse than gout. I literally could not walk. I would hold onto a piece of furniture while putting weight on my “good” foot… reach for more furniture then shift my weight. Rinse and repeat. That lasted for days. More video visits… my doctor prescribed opiates. They didn’t work. The pain eventually subsided but I had to use a hiking stick for balance and support while walking for more than a week.

When COVID protocols relaxed, I actually saw my doctor. She told me that I needed a check-up. It was not a suggestion. My thyroid was swollen (again), I had multiple hernias, and I had AFib something fierce.

While I was getting diagnosed and treated for my thyroid and cardio issues, three gout flares showed up and it was back to the hiking stick. In a ten-month period, I was sedated in the hospital for a colonoscopy (no polyps… yay!) and two interventional radiology biopsies. I was sedated five more times with a general anesthetic during that same period. Once for surgery to remove the left side of my thyroid along with a very large malignant tumor and four more times for cardioversions.

The left half of my thyroid is gone, but with any luck, it won’t be necessary to surgically remove the right half. However, the cardio problem… AFib… has been worrisome. I am in AFib 100% of the time, but I’m asymptomatic. I have no sensations like chest pains or palpitations that my heart is beating irregularly. During the first cardioversion attempt… a procedure where a cardiologist attempts to electrically shock your heart back into rhythm… a clot was found in my heart. That shuts down the procedure. I received stronger doses of anticoagulants prior to the second cardioversion attempt. It’s rare when such meds don’t dissolve a clot, but that’s what happened to me. The clot was still there. More anticoagulant therapy in preparation for a third attempt… the clot was still there and the procedure was stopped.

Today, May 25, 2021, was the fourth attempt, I needed prayers and got them. I had friends tell me they were praying for me, and a couple of prayer groups… folks I did not know… were praying, too. Clots, of course, are dangerous but when a cardiologist finds one during a cardioversion, he or she will stop the procedure. The concern is that the electrical shock will break the clot free and cause a stroke. This time, no clot… the shock worked and my AFib was gone. Halleluiah! Prayer works. I realize the AFib can return but knowing a follow up cardioversion can hopefully make it go away is comforting.

I had the same team of wonderful nurses for most of the cardioversions and of course the same cardiologist… that was comforting, too. I had a post-procedure follow up visit five weeks later to check if my AFib was gone for good. This all sounds pretty serious… and it is… but I had the advantage of having a nurse at home… my wife. For the past six months she has tended to my needs. This was during the worst of the COVID lockdown, but she was there and that made all the difference. When I started to feel better, Debbie made me start walking with her… every day. She gave me the best medicine for my ailments… big doses of caring.

The AFib came back. For the month prior to my fifth and last cardioversion, I have been taking a shot of olive oil every day. Olive oil is a natural blood thinner. Did it help? I don’t know, but the AFib stopped. So, it looks like after a year of treatment, my thyroid and heart problems are on the mend. Oh, yeah… those three hernias that needed repairing? They’ll have to wait until next year.

Prayer works. I am a believer. It helped to get me through my medical nightmare.

Here is the postscript added since I first penned this story… it looks like the medical nightmare was not quite over after the left side of my thyroid was removed. I ultimately had two heart surgeries in late 2021 to finally cure my AFib. That prayer was answered. Abdominal surgery followed in the spring of 2022… another success. Those issues are resolved. Then, a renal tumor was discovered when I had a chest scan in early 2023… that led to my left kidney and the large tumor on that kidney being surgically removed. Shortly after the kidney surgery, cancer was found on the right side of my thyroid. My surgeon scheduled surgery to remove the rest of my thyroid and that tumor in July 2023. That will be six surgeries in just under two and half years. Bitter or angry? No. Scared? Well, yes… but without a doubt, prayer has been my companion each and every time I needed surgery. It’s always part of my pre-op prep. Prayer works.

Small town, big heart

Small town, big heart

Small towns in America are still alive and well.

Wow… cross country motorcycle riding… there’s nothing like it. You become one with the machine. It’s a very meditative experience… not trance like… but reflective and calming. Anyway, in late June 2013, I rode from Mexico to the Canadian border. Most of it was on US Highway 93. It’s a north-south two-lane highway with some really cool small towns and beautiful scenery. In addition to my US 93 northern transit, I had to ride hundreds of miles to Mexicali just to start my Mexico to Canada trek, then aboot 1500 miles from the Roosville, Montana border crossing back to the Bay Area.

On the return leg of my journey, I was making good time southbound on US Highway 395. I had planned to stop for gas at the junction of US 395 and Oregon Route 31, but… oops… the gas station was closed. I pressed on to Lakeview, Oregon.

I rolled into a Shell station on fumes at the north end of town. Oregon law required that a station attendant pump your gas, but the kid working at the station agreed to let me pump my own after I told him that I needed to check my oil. I straightened my bike and checked the oil level… OK. Then my eyes bulged out like an amazed cartoon character when I looked at my rear tire. Ouch! The summer heat and coarse macadam on Highways 93 and 395 had worn my rear tire smooth and in some places down to the tire belt.

It was shortly after 5 pm on a Friday and the Les Schwab tire shop next to the gas station was closed, but I could see the manager inside at the front counter. I got the manager’s attention, he let me in, and I described my dilemma. He said his shop was not insured to repair or install motorcycle tires, however, there was a 4X4 store in town that could replace my tire if they had one in stock. I gingerly and slowly nudged my bike toward downtown. The 4X4 shop was closed and locked. Ouch, again.

As I started to circle back to my hotel, I noticed a BMW 1100 parked in front of the Pizza Villa Restaurant. A guy about my age was loading pizzas onto a motor scooter parked next to the BMW. I stopped and asked him if he knew the owner of the Beemer because I needed a new tire and I was wondering if the BMW owner could help me find one. He introduced himself as “Dan” and added that he owned the BMW. He looked at my back tire and agreed that I seriously needed a new tire. Dan told me that he gets his tires in Klamath Falls… 100 miles away. I said thanks and rode away.

The next morning, the 4X4 shop opened. The manager said they install motorcycle tires but he did not have a rear tire in stock that would fit my bike. He would have to order a tire from Klamath Falls and it would take two days before the tire could be delivered. Things were not looking good.

I walked out of the shop and around the corner. I saw Dan outside the Pizza Villa, and I shared the news with him about ordering a new tire. He said he had an idea. Dan told me that he also owned a Jeep and a small trailer that could transport my motorcycle over to Klamath Falls. I thanked him for the offer and added I would ride back to my hotel and call AAA for help. I called and got more bad news. While my policy would pay for towing if I were in California, I would have to pay out of pocket for a tow to the nearest motorcycle repair shop in Klamath Falls. AAA offered to revise my policy, but the change would not become effective until two days had lapsed. Things were starting to look worse.

I returned to Pizza Villa and found Dan. With hat in hand, I accepted his offer of help. I needed the use of his Jeep and trailer. Dan said to meet him back at the restaurant in an hour.

I was early and waiting when Dan drove up in his Jeep with a small flat trailer behind it. We loaded the bike. Dan apologized for not filling the Jeep’s gas tank. What?! He’s rescuing me and apologizing? No way. I told Dan that I would take care of the gas. Dan handed me the keys. He explained he could not accompany me but he was happy to offer me the use of his Jeep and trailer.

I called the motorcycle shop in Klamath Falls and told them I would be in around noon to get a new rear tire. The drive to Klamath Falls was uneventful and the bike shop had a new tire installed in about 45 minutes. Now, it was time to drive back to Lakeview. I would not get back until late afternoon which meant another night’s stay in Lakeview. Thanks to Dan… I was beginning to like this small town.

I topped off the Jeep when I got back to Lakeview and delivered the Jeep and trailer to Dan at the Pizza Villa. I paid for a Coke and small pizza, then placed an extra $100 on the counter. Dan shook his head and said he could not accept the money. I told him that I was going to leave it on the counter and if he did not take it then someone else would. He smiled, thanked me, and pocketed the cash.

Dan saved my trip, and he did something not too many people would have done. After only knowing me for about 20 minutes, Dan offered me his Jeep and trailer… no questions asked. Who does such a thing? The answer is guys and gals from smalltown America. The next day, as I was driving south out of town, I noticed Lakeview’s civic sign. It listed a couple of service clubs and sixteen churches. That’s sixteen churches in a town with about 2,300 people. Maybe there is a connection between all those churches and good Samaritans like Dan in Lakeview.

It is more blessed to give…

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

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.

Inclusiveness and unity

Inclusiveness and unity

First published in “The Daily Journal,” August 3, 2022, https://www.smdailyjournal.com/opinion/guest_perspectives/inclusiveness-and-unity/article_22db207a-12e3-11ed-9cfc-fb16ad56a5b4.html

In July 2022, I completed a 5,137 mile motorcycle trip to St. Louis and back. This particular trip was shorter than others I have made, but this trip was particularly memorable. I met dozens of folks at gas stations, restaurants, and motels in Red State America, and I made some observations and formed some conclusions about inclusiveness and unity.

In Eureka, Nevada, another biker, Mike, invited me to join him for breakfast. We talked a lot about motorcycles until Mike halted our conversation. He signaled our waitress that he wanted to buy breakfast for a down on his luck local, but she waved him off. Someone else had already paid for the meal.

The next day, near Granada, Colorado, I passed a lone walker headed east. I remembered Mike’s compassion and pulled over. The walker saw me waiting and his body tensed. I removed two frosty bottles of water from a saddlebag, and he relaxed. He accepted the water with a simple, “Thanks, brother.” David was on his way to Wichita, Kansas. He remarked that he walks from Colorado to Kansas “every couple of years.” David looked rough around the edges, but I found him articulate and interesting. I wished him luck and continued riding east.

In Hutchison, Kansas, I walked into a gas station and was greeted by a young woman dressed in traditional Amish attire. A mechanic named Larry introduced himself as a fellow motorcycle rider. He was planning a trip to Lakeview, Oregon. I shared with him a story about my visit to Lakeview and the extraordinary roadside assistance I received from a Lakeview biker. Before we parted ways, Larry unashamedly offered to pray for my safe return to California. I thanked him and told him that I would pray for his trip to Oregon.

Riding west, I stopped in Kadoka, South Dakota for a cold drink. While I chatted with the cashier, Aubrey, we watched a young boy drop some coins on the counter to pay for a large fountain soda. The boy did not have enough money, so I laid a couple of dollars on the counter. His beaming, “Thank you, sir!” was worth a lot more than two dollars.

Aubrey mentioned an increasing number of locals appear to be shopping at her gas station even though prices are higher than nearby stores. They seem to value the opportunity to connect with others in a familiar setting that promotes community. The next day, in Sheridan, Wyoming, I met Don at a gas station. Don said folks are worried about things like gas prices but joining together can help them persevere. I commented that my trip has been made more enjoyable by meeting so many gracious people. Don smiled and said it must be the “Midwest hospitality.”

Last stop… Austin, Nevada. Just east of town, I passed a jack-knifed big rig and a damaged pick-up. First responders were on scene. After checking into my motel, I moseyed over to one of two restaurants in town. I told the proprietor, Sarah, about the accident. She heard a Sheriff’s car go by with siren blaring but she did not know about the crash.

Another local, Kim, came into the restaurant and pulled Sarah aside. A look of complete sorrow enveloped Sarah’s face. The two women hugged each other and cried. Minutes later, Sarah walked over and told me the pick-up driver, a 22-year-old local, had been killed in the collision. I felt awkward but seeing people come together in a time of extreme sadness was comforting… for them and me.

On my trip, I met lots of folks focused on taking care of their families. They are worried about things like gas prices and the economy, but not one person made any reference to politics or said anything disparaging about others with a different ideology… not one.

I believe folks in Red State America are generally more accepting of different political opinions than their Blue State cousins. Inclusiveness must include diversity of thought… that is a crucial step toward unity. While there are rabid partisans on both sides, I’m fairly confident a conservative motorcycle rider would get a liberal dose of progressive philosophy if they were riding through the far West. With progressives describing conservatives in derisive terms… and a media that supports a liberal agenda… we should not be surprised the vocal left largely excludes the right from meaningful and productive dialog. Even so, it looks like one side is ready to try unity.

Billie the Hobo Kid

Billie the Hobo Kid

It may take years or even decades to fulfill your purpose, but you can get there.

Wow… waaay back to 1962. I was a 9-year-old 4th grader at an intermediate school in California’s Central Valley. We had a movie day at school every other week or so. Teachers would share a 16 mm projector on a cart laden with reels of film in metal cans on a lower shelf. This was high tech back in the day. I remember watching Disney’s “Johnny Appleseed” and a science movie featuring the Dyna-Soar spacecraft. It looked a lot like today’s space shuttles, and it was designed to glide to earth while being flown by a pilot. This was 25 years before the space shuttles started flying. However, the movie I really remember because it had a profound affect on my life was “A Desk for Billie.”

It’s a story about a migrant family in the 1930s and the eldest daughter, Billie Clare Davis. She was an inquisitive girl and desperate to learn, but her parents were against her spending time in school when she could be working. Eventually, her mother and father relented, and she started school at 8-years-old. She attended a couple of dozen schools as a girl because her family was always on the move following the harvest seasons on the West Coast. Against all odds… Billie graduated from high school in Bakersfield… with honors. She became a missionary, teacher, writer, and completed PhD studies at 59-years-old. Billie was also a passionate advocate for public education. She wrote about her struggle to get an education in a 1952 article for the Saturday Evening Post titled, “I was a Hobo Kid.” A movie followed four years later. It was very inspiring, and at the end of the movie, she credited overcoming so many challenges on the path to get an education to her teachers. I watched that movie more than 60 years ago, and Billie’s struggle just to go to school… for the love of learning… has always stayed with me.

The NEA made the movie… they would not make it today… it would not serve certain political agendas. In the 1960s, “A Desk for Billie,” was routinely shown to aspiring teachers while they were still in college. Teacher credentialing programs don’t show “A Desk for Billie” these days.

Fast forward to 2007… forty-five years later. I am a teacher. One of those special people who can change lives. One day after school, while sitting at my desk, I thought about Billie Davis and checked online for information about her. I was surprised to learn she was living in Springfield, Missouri, and still active in education. I wrote to her and thanked her for telling her story so many years ago, and for inspiring me forty-five years later. I was a teacher!

Billie wrote back. She sent me one of her books on teaching and a copy of her 1952 article along with a personal note. Billie told me that a teacher has to love his or her students because students will want to learn when they know a teacher really cares about them. That is the core value of teaching.

I could see that core value in action watching my wife who teaches piano. She didn’t study teaching like Billie, but she intuitively integrates a sincere caring for her students when she teaches. She inspires a love of music in her students and they are better for it. Even if my wife’s students stop playing one day, they will always remember how much fun they had learning with a teacher who cared.

Billie passed away in August 2019… just before the start of a new school year. We need teachers like her more than ever.

What happens in Austin

What happens in Austin

Be proud to be American… there are plenty of folks who are… like the 200 or so residents who live in and around Austin, Nevada.

After my second year of teaching US History to high school juniors, I decided to ride my Suzuki V-Strom cross country from the San Francisco Bay to Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. I rode US Highway 50 for most of my eastbound transit. My first night on Highway 50 was spent in Austin, Nevada… it was a short but memorable introduction to central Nevada.

I rolled into town on a warm July 1 afternoon. The main drag is about three quarters of a mile long. I noticed a small girl about 4 years old playing on the sidewalk in front of a place named the Owl Club. Another girl, who looked to be about 18 years old, was sitting close by. I figured they were together… they were. With no traffic in sight, I flipped a U-ie and pulled up to the curb. About this time, an older woman emerged from inside the Owl Club. She eyed me a little suspiciously.

I asked where I should stay for the night in Austin. The 18-year-old answered rather quickly… the Cozy Mountain. I thanked them and rode two blocks over to the Cozy Mountain Motel and asked about getting a room for a one night’s stay. The motel is actually a series of 12 or so prefab guest rooms arranged in a U-shape at the western edge of town. The owner, Cindy, was very hospitable and helpful. I checked in… no reservation… no problem. I asked where I could get something to eat, and Cindy said… the Owl Club. This time, I walked over to the Owl Club.

It was early July and the sun was sitting high in the pale sky. I walked in and sat on a stool at the bar. I was the only patron, but it was still early. The Owl Club was originally a movie theater many moons ago. It would have been a small theater, but Austin is a small town.

I ordered an IPA and just started looking around. The older woman that I met earlier when I arrived in town was tending bar. She introduced herself as Mary and said she was the owner of the Owl Cub. I noticed two photos on the large mirror behind her. One photo showed a young man in an Army uniform and the other showed a young woman in uniform. I asked Mary whether the soldiers in the pictures were local kids. She said they were her son and daughter. I told her that I was a retired Navy pilot and tipped my bottle to the young man and young woman in the photos.

That gesture sealed the deal. Mary refused to let me buy another beer. The next round was on the house. It got dark outside and the juke box got louder. A couple of people drifted into the Owl Club. After about eight locals arrived, Mary started pouring shots from a bottle of a chilled German liqueur… Jägermeister. Everyone was either talking or singing with the country tunes playing on the juke box. My shots were on the house, too.

I felt very welcome; Mary’s regulars treated me like a local. Mary was so gracious… everyone loved her. I pulled Mary aside and told her that I could not remember when I had so much fun and that I would definitely stop at the Owl Club on my way back to California. She asked… when and walked over to a calendar hanging on the wall. Mary picked up a pen and looked over her shoulder at me. I looked at the calendar and said, “July 24th.” Mary marked… Ray coming back across the calendar square reserved for Friday, July 24. I returned as promised on the 24th with a fresh bottle of Jägermeister in my starboard saddlebag for Mary’s Owl Club inventory.

Mary and her friends may be partial to German liqueur on most days , but I’m certain they were enjoying hot dogs, potato salad, and everything red, white and blue a few days later on July 4.

Listen to the voice

Listen to the voice

Most everyone likes feel-good stories, but life is not a Disney movie. This is a different type of story, but it makes sense that it follows the story about my student donating a portion of his part-time job savings to help a child he would never meet. The student in that earlier story, “When you’re smiling,’” was Asian, and about half of the students in the class that donated money as a group for a cleft palate operation to benefit a child they would never meet were Asian as well.

When we hear angry voices in public or private that are disagreeable or hateful, we can turn to the voice inside us for guidance. You can’t look away when you’re uncomfortable; you may just have to make someone else uncomfortable when that inner voice speaks to you.

I was visiting a friend who tended bar at a local watering hole and enjoying a freshly drawn IPA. The guy sitting next to me was silently getting pretty drunk. All of a sudden, he lifts his head up and he starts an anti-Asian rant… just vile… expletives and epithets. He wasn’t speaking to me or any particular person… he was just insulting anyone and everyone with Chinese heritage. I looked at my buddy behind the bar. He rolled his eyes then gave me a “what are ya gonna do?” type of look. Then, the guy stopped… for a couple of minutes.

He started up again. This time my buddy walked over toward the end of the bar hoping the guy would stop and things would settle down. Just like the first rant, the guy suddenly stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief. I guess the smart thing to do was simply ignore him and maybe he’ll be quiet.

No such luck… the guy started a third time… same routine but louder. My buddy was in an awkward position. I know for a fact he was terribly offended by the drunk’s language. However, if he intervened, would things escalate? Would the drunk focus his anger on my buddy? Would things turn physical? The drunk was a bully, and something had to be done.

I felt really uncomfortable inside. I thought about the hundreds of Asian students I had taught over the years. They looked up to me as a role model. They looked up to me and I was doing nothing. That was wrong and it made me feel sick.

Something welled up inside me. The voice inside me said… this is not right and you cannot pretend it is not happening. I turned to the other patron and said, in a loud and vigorous manner, “Hey! Who do you think you are? No one wants to hear your racist talk! Have you ever been to China? Well, I have and I can tell you that they are a great people. You’re gonna have to take your speech somewhere else… now!” The words rolled down like water.

I didn’t know what would happen next. He put his head down and said nothing. I thought… great… this guy might walk out to his car and get a shotgun so he could start blasting people away. Instead… after a few minutes, he looked over at me and said… You’re right. He got up and silently left the bar.

A couple of days later, I decided to pay another visit to my buddy. I was intercepted at the door by another employee who appeared to be Asian. He looked at me and said… You’re the guy! “What guy?” I asked. The young man said the bartender told him what had happened between me and the racist earlier in the week. I said in a low voice, “Yeah… that was me.” He smiled and said… Thank you for doing that then he turned to go back to work.

Sometimes, you have to take a stand even when it may make someone else feel uncomfortable, but it will be easier to do if you listen to the voice inside.