Tonight I came home this evening to this on my porch: a small note, a candy bar, and a budding flower. I sat next to this note and played guitar to love in a setting sun after a long week. I watched as the golden light of the sun faded across the heart-shaped note.
Every day, I sit on my porch and watch homelessness, watch bits of despair; today the couple in a broken down blue Ford Explorer, who have been working night and day to repair, have moved their car about 20-feet, and just around the corner. I play music on my porch and sometimes I’ll notice a person moving to my rhythm. I will see them sitting up against the warehouse, their feet tapping along to my guitar, or a head bobbing to my time. Some have clapped, many have just looked at me oddly.
Every night, as I walk Chico around the block, I can hear the soft mumbles of people in the shadows trying to sleep in such biting cold. I don’t really have any solution, and I often beat myself up about my own selfishness and all that I do have to give, more that I could do. Leonard always says hi to me and Chico...usually he says hi to Chico first. He often tells me he loves me, and I do back to him. This is every single day at my house.
At work, I am now the interim director of a program, it is a program I feel deeply for, one that I know is making a difference for a lot of people. It is only week three of my first semester running this program, it wasn’t an easy week. But each day I work with these students, these lives that will just pass through my life, and I see how amazing they are.
And then there are you, all of you out there I write to, my friends and family. You who take the phone calls when I am uncertain. You who text me about your garden and the trees about to bloom. You who play music with me. You who argue with me and open my eyes. You who help me find a car and find a bike. You who encourage me to be better each and every day. You who leave me notes of love. I have written about love for most of my life. Poetry, and songs, and stories, tried to make metaphors that matter.
Sometimes life feels lonely. In a morning of mass murder, I hate my own numbness, but you, all of you, help me feel so deeply. I want you to know, as I do, that you are loved too.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Tonight I walk under the cold winter wind with Chico. Chico has a haircut from his surgery that makes him look like he has pompoms on, or is a go-go dancer or something. It makes me laugh and I don’t think he understands why. He prances down the street like he owns the world anyways. Another semester has passed. I am grading papers and feeling that slip of the boulder. I had a strange dream the other night of Chico falling from a bridge I was repairing. My father and I were sleeping on this bridge after a long day of repairing it. A looming steel bridge with a large moving river below. Something out of the Frank Church or the Middle Fork. We sleep on the edge of this broken bridge, the grates of steel allowing us to almost feel like we fly above the river canyon. I wake in the morning to the distant sound of the river below, I look over and Chico is sleeping half hanging over the edge of the bridge. I am afraid to startle him awake and I try to gently move towards him, but when I move he lifts his eyes open and slips off the bridge. I watch his body as it kites in the wind falling and I yell one of those gut wrenching loss wails from a mixture of deep in your bowels and up beyond your own head and out into the galaxy like your scream is searching for the existence of god in the universe, or some hope of divinity, and I watch him splash into the water, back first, his legs up in the air.
I run down the bridge, jumping down stairs, yelling to my dad to wake up and help, help, help and I run down flights after flight until I get to a lower road below, start to run for the banks, but then run back and jump off a cliff, diving into the water below. I swim towards Chico and find him, he is pulling himself up out of the water, whimpering as he crawls out onto a sandy beach. I hope he will be OK as I wake washed in sadness in my bed. Ugh...a dream, and I lay my hand on Chico, call him a good boy, he rolls over exposing his big belly. I pet for a while until I hear him fall back asleep and I do the same.
That feeling of Chico slipping from the bridge must feel how the boulder rolls back off of Sisyphus’ hands. The first one must have been devastating. That first boulder he walks to the top, struggled, clawing the boulder forwards, leveraging up over cracks, and around trees, across streams. Sisyphus put his back into the boulder until his hands knew every off center point--did the gods taunt him when he stopped to rest, when he thought about his family, when he thought about his wife, his kids, and maybe even his dog...did the gods taunt him that if he could just get the boulder to the top he will be free.
And so he did. He pushed and grinded, and shoved, and rolled that boulder up out of the valley up to the very top of the mountain peaks; through thunderstorms and downpours, in the bright beating sun to the dark moonless nights where Orion’s eternal pursuit is best understood, he could hear the voices of those he loved in his ears at each break. He wants to give up, but he refuses to give in. He figures he has to prove to the gods that he won’t be broken. He is just about to the top of the mountain when he slips, he thinks it is nothing, just one time the boulder rocked to the left instead of the right, and he leaps to try and stop its momentum, and he jumps in front of it and braces his shoulder for the impact, but it just plows into him and lauches him sideways as it begins to bounce, then jump and tumble down the mountain. The breaking rock sound echoing off the canyon walls; it crashes through the forest below. He yells for it, in pain of loss of a loved one; that boulder was all he left behind, all he wanted back, but he refuses to quit that too, and he gets up, glances to the summit so close, and then turns to walk back down to get the boulder.
No, it would be the second time that you would fully understand the eternity the laid in front of you, the toil and loss over and over again. The second time would crush you because you would understand the reality of your fate. I love that he doesn’t give up. Surely, as the years go by he would realize that his wife had passed away, his kids grown up and parents, and grandkids, and great grandkids, and his name would begin to fade from them too. And when his own kids had surely passed, he was still pushing a boulder up a mountain. When everyone forgot him, he keeps pushing. I think this is why Camus says that he comes to understand that the struggle is enough... he says, the struggle is enough to fill a man’s heart.
It is the end of another semester...I am struggling to get through the grading, but always amazed at these students.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Ode to Razorback
Razorback has been laying on his side for six days now. This morning, his breathing is shallow, he nays softly to an empty barn after all the other goats have gone down canyon for the day. I try to give him water through a bottle, but he doesn’t want to drink. I try to give him the “goat crack” granola he used to want so badly, and he starts to eat a bit, almost as if by instinct, but after two bites, he puts his head back down and doesn’t move again. I rub his head between his beautiful swooping horns and whisper to him. He is 20 years old and this canyon, this ranch has been his home; soon he leaves.
I turn 41 today. For the most part, I have loved this ride on earth, the beautiful places I have seen, the amazing people I have shared it with, and the hope so many have for a better future.
I don’t know if we will ever cure death. More than just re-programming cells to keep regenerating, or changing the DNA to not wear down, maybe it is more about mapping consciousness into a robot version of yourself. These questions always leave us with questioning individuality because if I can map my life into a wired system connected to some grid, then what is to say that consciousness is ever individual. If it needs a system to live, then it is symbiotic, if not parasitic. And from there it is easy for me to see that this is true right now of humanity. My life is not my own, but contained in stories with you, with family, with friends, with my community, and the landscape of my life, but all these experiences are siphoned through past experiences, and none of it began alone. My whole story into life is filtered through all of you—early childhood explorations into the world and words, the way we create what we see, and how we approach it, and what is appropriate action.
My housemate helps me and we rotate Razorback over and get fresh straw underneath him. He is mostly bone now. For many years I have chased him and his herd off the mountain, listened for the sound of the bell tied around his neck to figure out where the goats have gone. His bell still a necklace around his neck lays muffled in the hay. Razorback is the icon for Oak Springs Ranch, between the arcing horns to his long goatee, like some old Kung Fu master of the mountains, many people have come to visit the ranch over the years and all of them would get pictures of Razorback. He is blind now. He has had a couple of strokes. He was able to barely stand when I started watching the ranch for my friends a few days ago, but now he can’t get up. I tried to help him up, but he will leave this canyon on his side.
Two days ago one of the new baby goats died. In the morning it wasn’t doing well. His mother was calling to me to help. He wasn’t moving much, and just wanted to lie down. I tried to feed it a bottle of goat milk formula, but he wouldn’t take it. I wrapped it in blankets to try to keep him warm. His head kept sliding back awkwardly, his eyes fogging over more and more. I read online about how to take care of sick baby goats; however, most of the things were beyond my medical ability involving shots and tubes. I called my friends who own the ranch, and they said this happens sometimes. They have lost many goats; they just seem to spin downwardly fast and there isn’t much you can do. I have seen this one other time with a baby goat here and I know this happens. They said the night before they left, the young goat came back alone really late away from the rest of the herd. They were afraid something happened. He theorized a rattlesnake bite, but I couldn’t see any sign for that. In the morning, rigamortis has set in with the goat. I load the stiff body onto the ATV and take it down the canyon a bit. I have to get to work and there isn’t time for anything more. It is unceremonious. Perhaps this is the best way to die. What difference does this make to the dead anyways. Ceremonies are for the living.
Surely death is the ultimate trail, the travels into the unknown we all go towards, transcendence from the physical; while any unknown is intriguing, do not go into this unprepared. A life well lived, a life filled with love and friendship and laughter makes it hard to go, but more ready than you could ever be. If I am an interconnected part of this community, culture of humanity, then I want to be a force of positive change. I am setting myself out to be a person that not only sees the best in other people, but also makes sure to help others see that in their own self too—to tell people not only they can, but they already are.
I am hoping Razorback will last until Rick and Kimberly get back.; however, I am ready to put him down. He moans softly and I try to shoo the flies out from his opaque eyes darting back and forth. My housemate has been up here with me and he has gone back and forth checking on Razorback all day, making sure he has water. We both think maybe we should just stop trying to keep him alive. We talk about getting a gun. We both agree that it isn’t what we would want of our deaths.
He ate a little bit last night. I sit down next to him. I tell him that it is OK to let go. I say, “hooo goat,” to him, the call I learned to bring the goats home for the evening I still call out to the herd without Razorback leading them. I pet between his horns. It is now six days since Razoback felt earth under his hooves. Soon he will be under the earth. There is no doubt about this. Ever since understanding what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 18 about immortalizing a person in writing, in the way some part of you lives on, passed down in tales and lore and poetry., I have set to write it down—to hold on to it because all else fades much quicker. Perhaps every person with a need to create does so against the empty abyss. There was death here, war here, a family here, toil here, this land was worked, and as even stone washes away story remains, reshaped, selected for, interpreted, and interpreting. People should know about this love ,this is the love we should carry forward into life. Even the author can fade from the story, but not the heart. And maybe, if Razorback is so lucky, maybe if my own words are careful enough, in them is some understanding of humanity, some gift to move forward, that others decades or centuries from now, when all that might remain is some hint of rock and creek, Rick and Kim long gone, the house long gone, fires ravaged the whole canyon, the stalwart oaks and few Ponderosa Pines are even gone, there remains some remnant story about a goat that once wandered these hills, fighting off Mountain Lion, enduring rain and sun and fire and frost.
They say goats are one of the domesticated animals most quickly to go feral, to return to the land, perhaps they barely ever needed humans in the first place. It was only us that needed them...once again, humans the parasite. Maybe they have a strong will to live, that even when old age has you down, when the weight of gravity is pushing you into the earth, you fight your way to one last breath.
Goats are perhaps the oldest domesticated animal, genetic analysis dating them back to 10000 years ago. Our lore and myths are filled with them, from pan to Satan, goats are part of humanity. Think of all the stories told around campfires eating goat meat and sipping wine from goatskin bags.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
A Losing Fight
Today, on the bike ride home from work, another dog attacked Chico. In the dog world, a little scuffle happens, and I get that; however, this dog wasn’t just sniffing too long; it ran at Chico and instantly jumped on him, biting, and shaking at him. I yelled, and Chico knows I don’t want him fighting. He tried to move away, but the dog kept attacking. I jumped off my bike and pulled at the dog trying to get it to release Chico. A second dog then came over. I yelled more and Chico fell over for a second. In that moment, he wasn’t being submissive, but he simply fell over onto his side. He jumped back up, but in that moment I saw him as more fragile than I ever have. I saw the scared look in his eyes, his legs up in the air, his old tired body rolling over. I leaped between the dogs and yanked it off Chico. The owner grabbed his dog and I took Chico away to a safe location to check him over.
I didn’t say anything, though in my mind I had a lot to say. They didn’t punish the dog at all really. Just told it to go inside. If that was Chico starting a fight like that, he would have been pinned to the ground and on his back and I would hold him there. I have been harsh with Chico at times. As some people know, I trained Chico with a shock collar. I rarely needed to use it, but if Chico ran into the road, or chased a cat, he surely felt it, and he listened after that when I said no. I have been strict with him because I love him, because he is my responsibility.
Chico wasn’t phased by the whole event. He just seemed to run on forward again as if nothing happened. He had one good puncture wound on the top of his head. Another on his back, and another on his ear where blood began to pool and swell his ear. I wanted to yell something. I wanted to drop kick the dog. I wanted to tell the owner something, but I just walked away and got Chico to safety. The owner didn’t even leash their dog after that, didn’t apologize, or even walk it back to their yard. I could feel my own desire to stomp on the other dog rise inside of me. When we got home, I washed it out, put ointment on it, and laid down on Chico petting him as we both fell asleep. I am worried about losing him. I am selfishly worried about my own sanity when I don’t have him anymore. Maybe he is a crutch to life for me, a reason to be alone, an excuse to hike out into solitude. Through all the major loss of my life, I have had him: my grandmother, my grandfather, lost loves--Chico has been there waiting to go walk, to push his body against mine as he fades into dog dreams.
In the last months of my grandfather, I visited him at the nursing home and everyone in there lit up when they saw Chico. They all had stories of past dogs they once had too. I know I have a lot of life to live that will happen without Chico. I imagine, I too, will be reflecting back to this little bit of selfless love in my life. Maybe it is a bit pathetic, but he is one of the most significant relationships in my life. He has taught me a lot about love and caring.
I was just at the Vet with Chico running full panel of blood work on his, urinalysis, fecal analysis to make sure he is doing OK at over 10 years of age. They gave him a clean bill of health. The Vet said he will most likely die of old age. That, unfortunately, isn’t all that comforting. I make an appointment to take him in tomorrow. Regardless, I rub Chico’s belly and feel the rise and fall of his breath as I use him like a pillow. I listen to his deep breathing. Often at night, when he dreams, he does this underwater type barking, and I will reach out and put my hand on him, let him know that I am here for him. I hate that he was hurt today and that I didn’t get there soon enough to stop it. I can’t get the image of him falling over on his back as this dog attacked him; he looked over to me for help. I try to be there for him. I tell him I love him. I grab a hold of his paw in my own hand as I too fall asleep.
Saturday, December 24, 2016
migration of spiders
After eight years, I feel the need for poetry again.
Today is solstice, time to turn the compost, and
I switch from south to north rim for hikes to the ridge,
The trail, mostly rocky basalt, dries quick
To the southern sun setting over the Mendo Mountains.
Sunlight at solstice splits the canyon, shadows point north.
The leafless scrub oak adumbrate the brown grass hills.
I pass a young man with a prosthetic leg and crutch;
I tell him he is awesome, he responds, “Sometimes,
you just have to get up and see the sun.” And, he’s right.
Spiders migrate on gossamer thread balloons and hope.
They string the barbed wire fencing the edge of the park,
Break free, and kite across the canyon and beyond.
Yesterday, I watched them on South rim, drift on thermals.
Spiders have travelled thousands of miles this way,
Inhabited distant islands, colonized far off lands, left.
Hundreds of silk filaments gently wrap around my body.
The shortest day fades into the longest night.
Sometimes, you just have poetry for such darkness.
A Noiseless Patient Spider
by Walt Whitman
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
How little we know
We walk by Ti’s house, the light is on, the dogs are quiet for once. Thunder, aptly named, normally has a fit as we walk by and Chico taunts him sometimes, but all is quiet now. It’s really strange how little I know about her, but I can’t help but think about her in the bed at the hospital. Chico and I walk by her house twice a day and she walks by mine at least twice a day. We’ve talked, and her English is pretty good, even if she looks at me quizzically often. She has two teenage kids raised here in America. She brings food to her Dad each day, and often walks with him or her mother back and forth between the two houses, on either side of me. Ti’s house is three down from mine and her father lives right next door along with her brother. The rain has stopped, and leaves silent the sidewalk. When we get back to my house, I swing open the gate and Chico runs from behind where he has just marked the corner of our property again, and up to the porch to be let in.
I am not thinking and open the door and he walks right into the house. I am sure he knows by now that if his paws are wet, then he needs to wait for me. I might just start making him wipe his paws each time he comes in. But he walks into the house crosses the wood floors and stops at his food dish to point out that it is empty.
“God damnit Chico. I know you know better than this.” He looks at me from behind eyebrows grown too long now. For the last week he has started to hold his head higher in order to see my face.
“I am sure by now, you must notice that I am taking off my shoes and I tell you to stop each time we come in the door and it is wet outside.” That probably isn’t true, but I am sure I am a good enough liar to full my dog, or fool enough to believe that.
I pull off the neoprene slip on boots I had learned to love in Alaska by watching, and Utah after purchasing them, that they make life easy in inclimate weather when you are going in and out of the house. Mud rooms really make the most sense. My teacher is always telling me how I have to frame in the porch, and then extend a second porch out. It could be a good mudroom. But, I probably should just learn to walk around through the gate to the backyard.
I don’t write often about my teacher. My martial arts teacher, Ti’s brother. And while I am no great student, that is for sure, he is my neighbor and has become family to me. I moved here, partly because he is my neighbor, fully knowing what I was getting in for. Well, I should rephrase that, fully knowing that I was entering into something I don’t know fully about. And that is the point, sort of.
I don’t write much of the stories down yet about him because I know he wouldn’t like me writing about him. And most of my life knowing him, now about 15 years or so, I thought most of the stories were bullshit, but I am learning not to.
Tomorrow he heads down to Sacramento with his wife and brother to talk to the doctor about his sister in the hospital.
I am kind of late getting to the office, but I don’t have any official hours per se. Part of that is because my teaching has a lot of grading and I can grade from anywhere or do it at other times too. The flexibility of teaching is wonderful that way. And I might be giving that up soon.
I sit down, open up my laptop, the office is a mess, filled with boxes from another professor, retired, who has gifted me his life of work in some ways. He has been a force for the Park program at Chico, and most of my friends took classes from him and think of him fondly. I knew him from stories other people would tell before actually meeting him. He sees me as someone that might carry the torch for the program. I am in, but I don’t see that happening. I am not really sure what to do with a lot of it. It is mostly for environmental education teachers. And a lot of it is really good stuff. In some ways, I think libraries in schools should house a lot of this stuff. Put it into an archive of sorts for the people who once taught here, and gave their lives to these institutions. When our recent college president left, he donated to the school in exchange for them naming the new performing arts building after him and his wife. It is strange the things we sell, and the ways we hold on to hope that we won’t be forgotten completely by history. Save these boxes of manuals, and lesson plans, and books. Hooper was a recent fellow of the National Association of Interpretation. And more than anything, he has been teaching environmental education for over 30 years at the University level, training other teachers, and still seems excited each day to be with his students.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I know who is calling. My teacher is pretty much the only person that calls me directly these days. The phone actually says, teacher or curtis lamalfa. I am guessing that Curtis’s number is stored in my phone as my teacher’s number, and that story, of why that is, is a longer story that tells a bit about my relationship with my teacher, or another student’s story really.
I answer the phone, “hi, sir.”
“Nate.” sounds always more like Ned. “Are you at work?”
“Yes sir, just got here.”
“I need you to drive me and my family down to Sacramento.”
“When can you do that.”
“Oh…” I kind of hesitate, wondering what I am getting roped into doing now. “I have maybe a few hours of work I need to do then I could probably take off.”
He interrupts me, “my sister had an aneurysm, and they sent her on the helicopter to UC Davis Hospital in Sacramento.”
I snap to from my selfish thoughts, and tell him actually, I am just sitting here all day to collect student drafts of essays. I have promised to read them all and comment over the weekend and return them on Monday. I will leave a box, send an email to my students explaining, and I will pick up the papers later tonight. He has a car and can drive, but he tells me he wants someone level-headed to drive and help at the hospital to ask questions.
He tells me, “it doesn’t look like she is going to make it.”
I ride home quickly. When I get there, he is waiting, a dark blue Ford Explorer is in my extra driveway space behind the gate. My teacher has all the keys to my house and everything. I am not worried. He tells me that he needs me to drive with his brother, Son, to the hospital. He is not going; he isn’t well. I tell him I will just drive my car, but he says no. I tell him they might end up wanting to stay over-night and I can’t stay overnight sir. But I will do it. I usually voice my concern with his plans and tell him that I will do it his way, but I registered my complaint, so to speak. We do this often, usually while building things on his house.
I don’t know his brother, and I have never met him before, but I know the story, sort of. His brother moved here first, their father was a banker in Vietnam and knew this American guy that lived, or maybe retired to Paradise, CA. So, when Son was able to get out of Vietnam, out from the refugee camps, he came to Paradise, and slowly the whole family has come here now.
My teacher’s Dad and Mom, I know already, and Ti, of course too, and her two kids a very little bit, but not very well. I think they all know who I am quite well. I am over at the house with my teacher most days.
The rivers are rising right now. Flood warning all over the valley. I am curious to see it all. Chico and I walk into work and stop at Little Chico Creek. It is as high as I have ever seen it. I imagine jumping in the river to ride it down to the Sacramento River. I think about Muir in a pine tree riding out a thunderstorm. I get that. There is something about the unpredictability of life that excites me. Maybe, it is humbling to feel nature in wrath and destruction. To watch landslides and erosion, and buildings torn away. I watched a recent video of a landslide falling onto Highway 299, a highway I have driven lots of times, and still I wanted to see the destruction. I wanted the see, not the boulder, but the force of nature humbling man. And next to the landslide was a tractor. It looked like a tonka toy next to the mountain. The side gave way, the dirt falling, until an avalanche of soil and rock, with one large boulder cleaving from the mountain, it rolls and crushes onto the pavement before rolling off towards the creek. I wanted to see it take out the road, or dam the river and watch the river swell up over the road, and erode it from underneath. I have always imagined the earth in all her power. I think I love surfing so much is because you are riding the energy waves of a storm. The spinning yell of merging pressure systems and temperature gradients, a tantrum from earth, and with it moves mountains, carries water deep onto land, hammers the coast lines, and washes away the earth, dragging it back into itself. Not scared of earthquakes, but wishing I could have felt it, rode it...witnessed it. Bare testimony to power. But there is death.
Aleppo worries me. Any situation where a more compassionate and obvious method seems like it must exist, but none that don’t require power to relent power, the right by power to admit being wrong to the weak, to attempt real remorse and forgiveness. Do large groups of people really want death to others? And if we head towards a projected 9 billion people on earth before maybe leveling out even if we all decided to do that right now, we are going to have to live together and in closer proximity to each other. And yet, I see these images of a city decimated, beautiful cathedrals and stone walls, and intricately laid tiles, turned to rubble. Then you hear the people, crying out that their city is about to fall. I don’t know what to do, because I feel that so much of the military advancements that have allowed this level of destruction came from our country and the people who lived here. Not that killing, or slaughter, or genocide was ever an American invention or thought...that seems to be as old as humankind, it is biblical and mythical.
Chico and I walk the cold night, the front past, the cold trailing the storm; I think about all the water, using the sun to dry now; the water is mostly just passing through. I put on the heavy down jacket, and walk out into the night. As I walk by my teacher’s house, I see that his sister, Po, I think that is her nickname, left a stack of blankets sitting on the sidewalk. I saw them earlier today, but assumed they were picking them up, or taking them somewhere, but now I wonder if they sat them out for the homeless on this very cold night. I hope someone comes by and sees them and takes them. Usually two homeless people sit on the stoop in front of their house, often with a drink in their hands. I am learning a lot about life watching the homeless each and every day living across from the Jesus Center. My teacher has lived here for over 20 years now. He has mostly fortressed himself in. My teacher’s other sister came down from Seattle to help take care of the parents and wait for news. His Mom, Dad, and sister are living in the front house now. Ti is still in the hospital, breathing on her own, in a coma.
You know, JFK supposedly had a big turnaround in his thinking about nuclear war and weapons, and such. He gave a speech, The American University address, and it was that something changed, I think it had to do with the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the fear the created in so many people, the thought of annihilation, and winter, a dark winter. He said this:
“What kind of a peace do I mean and what kind of a peace do we seek? Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave. I am talking about genuine peace – the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living – the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children – not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women – not merely peace in our time but peace in all time.”
He won election being hawkish and promising to be tougher. And maybe, if not Obama, than maybe Trump could see this and change too. Maybe, for once, down from his golden tower, he will be forced to really see things like Aleppo, and realize that the world is looking to him now for help. People are dying and you have some of the most power on the earth now if used right. It is like melting the grinch’s heart or something. It seems not fathomable, but I am hoping for that Xmas miracle.
When I drove down with Son and my teacher’s parents to the hospital, my teacher told me he wanted a white person to go because he thought the doctors would try harder. He didn’t go with us. He said, he couldn’t. He was a mess. He said, the whole family has PTSD from the Vietnam War, and the worker’s camps, the refugee camps, being split apart for so long. He said, I needed to go just to be a calming voice. I did, but as I told him, they aren’t going to invite me back to talk with the doctor. Who am I? When the doctor came out after surgery, I stayed with the parents in the waiting room while Ti’s ex-husband, her kids, and Son, went into the room to talk.
After it all, after the sobbing, after my teacher's mother was admitted to the ER and then released, we all drove down to the Vietnamese section of Sacramento to look for a pho restaurant they knew and liked. We sat around vinyl topped sticky table together in a vietnamese market and restaurant together. The mother, between her pulsating sobs, would look up and make sure I was eating, or had tea, or tried another new strange food. I kept thinking about everything this family has been through, and thinking about Syrian refugees. I looked around and everywhere there were Vietnamese people, the products and heritage of a war torn country.
My teacher would later tell me, maybe this is all best for Ti. Life has been so hard for her, she has worked like a slave her whole life, maybe this is best. I told him, I emphatically disagree. Yes, it should have been better. Maybe it isn't that I like seeing wrath and destruction upon humanity, it is that afterwards, humans come together, in empathy and love. These outstretched hands give me hope. I have always been a positive person. I have always assumed that people can and will. People will see the value in protecting water, or trying to use renewable resources. That people will adopt a land ethic if they just get out and see it. That war is not inevitable, and that dictators will change, and billionaires will donate, and that even when the doctor says there is a 1% chance, that it is better than no chance at all because you are saying that it is possible.