Lady Deals with the Terrorists

“Denn wir haben hie keine bleibende Statt, sondern die zukünftige suchen wir,” I tell her who is, and who is not. If you know the difference between ser / estar, you’ll get it.

“Marc?” she responds from Strasbourg, “are you quite all right?”

“I wasn’t,” I told her. “In fact, yesterday I simply abandoned all hope, since I was very much in the first clause of ‘Denn wir…’”

“And that would be?”

“’For here we have no continuing city,’” I tell her. “It’s the first line of the sixth movement of the German Requiem….”

So then I have to confess: I have spent seventy minutes or so weeping softly in a corner of the café, because paradoxically, when thousands are gathered outside the Stonewall Inn, or in the streets of London and Paris, nothing much is happening in Puerto Rico.

Is it homophobia? Or is it that we are all too stunned, and depressed, to act? Because in the space of four or five days, we learned that the House had passed the Fiscal Control Board, that the Supreme Court of the United States was perfectly happy to tell us that we didn’t have sovereignty, and that 23 of our (for the most part) sons had been murdered. And so my friend Keith in Michigan had dragged out his bass, and undoubtedly shed blood on the fingerboard in a hastily-called performance of the Mozart Requiem. (I mean it about the blood—imagine rubbing your fingers up and down a thick wire for over an hour. Wouldn’t you be bleeding, too?) But here, in Puerto Rico, nothing much was happening. No candlelight vigils, no marches, no ecumenical services. And so I was left with Facebook, which doesn’t provide catharsis as much as it deepens whatever woe that leads you sobbing for catharsis. And what tipped me completely into a major depression was a clip—with 22 million hits, and I kid you not—about how to survive a mass murder attack.

“For here we have no continuing city,” I told Lady, “or in other words, what have we become? And when did our city stop continuing? Because now I have to sit here and try to figure out—what should I do if, at this very moment, the terrorist / s enter into the very door, their AR-15's blazing?”

“I know what you’d do,” said Lady, “I’ve seen it a thousand times: you’d finish your coffee!”

Actually, just thinking the scenario made me chug it down….

“Not funny,” I told her. “The problem is that I have two options, since the third—hiding under the table—is a little out.”

The table would barely cover my belly.

“So, I could run for the bathroom, and barricade myself in it. But the problem is, how do I know if anybody is in the bathroom? If so, I’d lose precious seconds instead of doing what I should have done, which is go into the gift store, up the stairs, and—if needed—go up to the roof. But of course, I don’t know if the door to the stairs is locked, either. Oh, and if I barricade myself in the bathroom, presumably the killer would have the sense to shoot the lock, and there I’d be—a sitting duck….”

“Marc….”

“And don’t tell me that that’s not going to happen, because 49 people never went out to the nightclub last Saturday night expecting to come back in body bags. No, the whole thing is about making everybody crazy….”

“Marc, I hardly think….”

“Anyway, so yesterday I got into the darkest funk possible, since it dawned on me that I haven’t even checked if the door into the gift shop is open, in which case I would be losing valuable seconds….”

“Marc….”

“So now I’m going to have to check all the doors to everywhere, and then I’m going to have to keep a running tab on who is in the bathroom, though what if someone sitting behind me uses the bathroom? Do I have to change my table to the one closest to the bathroom? Or maybe we should get a bell that rings discreetly when someone goes into the bathroom? Or a rear view mirror for my table? Close captioned video? There’s gotta be some technology….”

“Marc, honey….”

“And the other thing is, what about Felix? He’s sitting right in front of me, and granted, he’s a little weird, but he is a musician. So should I tell him to follow me, up the stairs, and onto the roof? But he’d probably just be stunned, and not prepared, as I am, with the 22 million people who have watched the video. So there again, those precious seconds….”

“Well, you could….”

“And the thing is, I know perfectly well what I would do, in the event of a mass attack by assault wielding ISIS-supporting terrorists, and that is sit stone-still at my table with my mouth agape. Not a pretty picture, but sorry, that’s what I’d be doing. Because I have this quirk: I have to figure things out. I don’t react quickly, or on instinct. Or rather, I do, and my instinct is to freeze and process the mass murder that is going on around me. Which means curtains! Hasta la vista, Baby! Kiss Marc’s sweet bottom goodbye!”

“Surely….”

“And so, I got into a full blown, major depression, and then I started off into the land of anxiety; I had had just seen the road sign for the city of Panic Attack, when Saul came in….”

“Saul?”

“Saul—we used to hang out with him. And now he has a 9-month old baby, and she could sell baby food to a nursing home, she’s so cute. So we talk about that, and he asked me if I’m playing the cello, and I told him no. Why, he asked. So I told him about my back, and how I need to rest my back after being up all morning. So no more cello playing at 5 PM. All that’s in the past. For here we have no continuing city….”

“So what did he say?”

“He got really concerned, and told me that I had to go back to the cello. He said it was a gift, that people really got moved by the sound of the instrument, that God had given me something special.”

“Well, he has….”

“He’s given us all something special,” I told her, “presuming he exists. Or not. Anyway, Saul goes off. Then he comes back, and tells me, ‘I used to come here with my soul broken, and your music healed me,’ and I thank him, and sit down to look at the door he is going out of, with his 9-month old little daughter, and that’s when I saw the mass murderers with their AR-15’s come in, and the first person they shoot is the little….”

“WHAT!”

“OK—so there were no mass murderers, and Saul and his daughter are fine. For now. Because who knows? And then I realized, that for us….”

“Yeah?”

“…we who have no continuing city….”

“And?”

“…well, my soul is broken, and who is there to heal me? Because here I am, waiting for the mass murderers to break through the door, and everybody else is drinking coffee, or putting their 9-month babies into the stroller. Their city is continuing. Mine, not. So that’s when I turned to the Brahms German Requiem, and that’s when I learned about the city I live in, no longer continuing. You know, the first part of line I quoted.”

“And the second part?”

“Sondern die zukünftige suchen wir,” I told her. “But we seek the future.”

“Yes,” she says, and smiles distantly from Strasbourg, and then drifts out the door, patting it gently as she leaves the terrorists far, far behind.   

     

Click here for an excellent translation

Wackos, Within and Without

“Well, the plot thickens, as it always does,” I told Lady. “Anyway, today I woke up this morning to an email from my student, who’s running for governor as an independent candidate. It turns out that El Nuevo Día, the largest paper on the island, is asking for video clips from all the candidates: what role does education play in preventing such tragedies….”

“Time for a sound bite!”

“Here’s the deal: 23 of the victims were Puerto Rican. So what to say? And how do you say it in one minute? Anyway, as I told my student, the real question is how many LGBT kids will end up on the street this year, versus how many will be shot in discos. Or another issue: how many LGBT people will commit suicide versus die by gunfire in a disco. Because those are, in a sense, even larger problems than the ones that grab the headlines. So I told my student about Caitlin Ryan….”

“She being…?”

“A social worker in San Francisco, who’s doing great work getting the families of LGBT youth to becoming more accepting. As she says, most of us in the LGBT community viewed the family as the problem. And for most parents, it was a question of having to choose between their faith and their child. But if you can change the dialogue, you have a chance to help the parents and the child come closer together. And did you know that…wait, here’s the quote:

….the effect (of being forced out of the home) was enormous, as their results published in the Journal of Pediatrics showed: Those who are forcefully rejected by their families or caregivers are more than 8 times as likely to attempt suicide, nearly 6 times as likely to report high levels of depression and more than 3 times as likely to use illegal drugs and be at high risk for HIV and STDs.

“Yup, knew that,” said Lady.

“Anyway, the news out of Florida is as predictable as it is gloomy. The guy was crazy, and everybody—especially his coworkers—knew it. But when the FBI investigated, they discovered that he couldn’t be linked to terrorism. Of course he couldn’t—but that misses the point. So I told my student, we have to make a profile of who is at high risk for committing a massacre….”

“…and that would be?”

“You know, every time it’s the same story, so here would be my list…”

·      Solitary, “lone wolf” personality

·      Few friends, social activities

·      Erratic personality, especially mood swings

·      Interest in guns / weapons

·      Poor impulse control

·      Rigid personality

·      Hyper-religiosity

·      Social intolerance

·      Substance abuse

“Anyway, the point is that the FBI is looking for a link to a terrorist threat, but it’s not looking to prevent a person from becoming a terrorist. Same thing happened in Boston. So we have to put together teams of law enforcement, social services, mental health professionals, and yes, the religious community….”

“You said that?”

“Look, it’s what we have. In the case of the gay community, we haven’t done a good job of connecting with the Evangelical Christians. They think we’re possessed by the devil, and we think they’re monsters because they reject their children. But look, does any parent want to see their kid on the street? Can you imagine how you would feel, late at night, in the middle of winter, not knowing where your kid was? Or even if he was alive? So if we could engage with the religious right enough so that they could at least counsel parents not to throw their kids out…well, that would be a lot. And in the case of the Muslim community, yeah, we need the imams to be looking at their communities, identifying the young, male isolated kids who are at risk. And then trusting the authorities enough to call in social services or the law. In short, everybody’s got to be at the table….”

“Think that will work?”

“No idea,” I told her. “The Muslim community—sorry to drop this news—has a little work to do. Did you know that Mateen was a regular at the club, that he frequently got drunk and had to be escorted out of the club? Here’s a quote:

Smith said the sometimes-visitor would show up with a buddy and let loose in a way he couldn't when he was closer to the family home in Port St. Lucie: "(He'd get) really, really drunk... He couldn't drink when he was at home — around his wife, or family. His father was really strict... He used to bitch about it."

“The old, old story,” said Lady. “He’s gay, but he can’t come out. He probably can’t even admit it to himself. And then one day he explodes…”

“Yup,” I tell her, “the problem is that there’s a lot of hypocrisy in these societies. The stricter they are, the more rigid they are—well, the more stuff that’s roiling under the surface.”

“Well, can you imagine what the families must be going through?” asked Lady.

“You know, it’s just like the AIDS crisis. So many families had to go through two traumas at once: finding out their loved one was gay, and finding out that he had AIDS. And the thing is that some of the people, maybe even most of the people, in the club were straight. So who knows how many of the victims were gay, or just loose enough to be in a gay-friendly club? But now, their families will never know….”

“Well, it was the last thing Puerto Rico needed,” said Lady. “Is there anything good that can come out of it?”

“I think so,” I told her. “Actually, I can see a lot of good coming out of it. In the first place, I think we should start an online petition / pledge. Everybody who signs agrees that they will not vote for any politician who accepts money from the gun lobbies. Second, everybody provides their senatorial or congressional district. Third, we ask for volunteers in each congressional district to send out report cards on candidates to the pledgers in their district. Politicians have got to get the message: accepting money from the gun industry just isn’t worth it. Then maybe something can get done!”

“Would that work?”

“Who knows,” I told her.

But what do we have?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

When The Situation Calls for Marian Anderson....

I tell her, she who is not here, that the world doesn’t need to hear from me today.

“Well, I wrote about it,” said Lady, “so you should too.”

“There will come a time,” I told her, “when people won’t know what that unspecified ‘it’ is. But today, all anyone can think about is the killing of 50 people in a gay nightclub in Orlando. Anyway, when ‘it’ no longer ceases to be ‘it’ then I’ll write about it. Or ‘it…’ Anyway, nobody particularly cares…”

“Well, I care,” said Lady. “So what do you think?”

“Hard to know,” I tell her, ‘though my first thought, frankly, was ‘ah, the religion of peace strikes again!’ Is that fair? No, of course not. Did the fact that Westboro Church all but lit off fireworks to celebrate the event mean that all Christians hate gay people? Of course not. In fact, there was a vigil held at a mosque in Orlando last night. And some sheik or imam or somebody-or-other came out and denounced the attack. But then again, two months ago, Farrokh Sekaleshfar, a Sharia ‘scholar’ was in Orlando, and he comes right out and says it. Couldn’t be clearer—gays must die. So what are we supposed to think? Oh, and Sekaleshfar, to be fair, put out on his website condolences, as well as made this statement:”

The killing of innocent life is never justified by religion,' he said. 

The perpetrator of this shooting has directly violated this holy commandment and displayed a complete disregard for the sanctity of human life and divine values.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3638438/Orlando-shooting-Controversial-anti-homosexual-sheikh-spoke-Florida-shooting.html#ixzz4BThH3cMw

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“So I ran over to YouTube, and there he is, coolly saying that ‘we have to get rid of them.’ Oh, and according to the info on the YouTube clip below, he also said:”

Death is the sentence. We know there’s nothing to be embarrassed about this, death is the sentence...We have to have that compassion for people, with homosexuals, it's the same, out of compassion, let’s get rid of them now.”

“Anyway, he certainly knows how to use both side of his mouth,” I told her. “But he actually worries me less than the fact that the ‘Interfaith Council of Central Florida’ got the guy in to speak, and then issued this smarmy statement when they got called on it:”

These issues around homosexuality and the decrying of it or denouncing of it by religion takes away, often, from our really important task of helping our community to be a better community...and wishes congregations would focus more on helping the homeless, poor , and abused instead of persecuting a group that can take care of itself.

“In other words, homosexuality is a side issue, and then he throws in that assumption that we can ‘take care of ourselves.’ Well, I wish it were true. But there’s something a little complicit in the Muslim community: too many of them let a sizable wacko component spout off, and then when something outrageous happens, they give us the ‘Islam is love’ line. ”

“Anyway, it’s a disaster,” I continued, “because guess who benefits? Donald Trump, since he’ll play the fear factor up, and say that he’ll make America safe—as well as great—again! So that’s another disaster….”

“Ouch!”

“And of course, there’s the other disaster of knowing that Americans have the constitutional right—supposedly—to buy and carry assault rifles, and that any lunatic can do so. So even though the guy was an abuser—according to his wife—he still got a gun. Oh, and his co-workers knew that he was nutso, so much that they contacted the authorities. And just like the Boston bomber, he was on the screen but off. So that has to be the fourth or fifth disaster….”

“Oh, dear….”

“Yup…”

“You know, if enough of the Muslim world could do what Irshad Manji did and does, I’d buy into the ‘Islam is a religion of peace’ stuff.”

“Irshad Manji?”

“Canadian woman who wrote a book called The Trouble with Islam Today. Anyway, today isn’t really a day to think, or to analyze. It’s mostly about getting up and getting on, which is why I flew Marian Anderson in….”

“The contralto? The lady at the Lincoln Memorial?”

“The very same,” I told her, “because when things really get bad, the only way out is Anderson. And the Alto Rhapsody, of course…”

“Brahms?”

“Yup, and quite specific and to the point, here. It’s a prayer for a soul lost in the wilderness to find spiritual comfort. And oddly, I always think it’s a prayer for the victimizer, not the victim. It is, in fact, the only way I can pray for the soul of the 19 hijackers on September 11. Or for Mateen…. Because what nobody talks about is the intense isolation of these killers. Their society, and ours, has failed them. They’re drifting around, unmoored, and then this fanatic ‘religion’ snags them, and the only way for their life to have ‘meaning’ is to commit atrocities in the name of Jesus or Allah or whoever. Then, of course, we say that ‘they are filled with evil.’ But that’s crazy: they’re not filled with anything. At least at the beginning. So the Alto Rhapsody always does the trick….”

“But why?”

“Because what is wearisome about all of this is the narrative we tell ourselves. ‘It was a senseless act,’ we say, but is that really true? Of course, it doesn’t make sense to us, but then, getting down and bowing to Mecca five times a day doesn’t make sense, either. To us, at least. But the terrible think is that the tragedy does make sense, if you take the Koran literally. I mean, it’s there, as it is in the Bible. But if you believe literally, well the act makes sense….”

“Are you condoning the attack?”

“Absolutely not. But not thinking clearly about our narrative doesn’t help us….”

“And thinking clearly does?”

“Who knows? But I think it’s our only way out….”

“Right! So on with the Brahms!”

“OK, but to really get this work, you gotta follow the lyrics….”

“Why?”

“Just do it. You’ll see why.”

She did, and she did!

Chapter 13, Bad Novel

It was the hill where they placed the dead.

The old, the young, the sick and maimed—it didn’t matter to the hill. Its only obligation was to receive them, soak in the putrid fluids from their wounds, and finally watch as the carrion descended. A hill can do all of that quite coldly. Death, after all, is the answer to life’s question.

It was as well, I thought, since there is nothing personal in death—and isn’t an individual personality a tyranny? How many of us long to be in a mob, a part of a raging riot that has a mind of its own? To sweep through the streets towards the Bastille, sure that nothing can stop it. At last, having the ‘I’ become ‘it.’

And so I came across the body, in my first steps up the hill. I sat beside it, for a while, since it seemed somehow lonely.

“Well, I was so in life, as well,” it said.

“Excuse me?”

“Lonely, I mean. It’s the price of success. And I was successful, very much so….”

“That wasn’t what you wished?”

“Very much so, and not, in the end. But yes, I spent a lot of time and energy upon that success. In my youth, I had looks. Later, I had money. And at the end, I had no one. My wife had left me, emotionally, years ago, though she never moved out. But there was no companionship, nothing sweet between us. And my children? They hovered around me, waiting for me to die, wondering who would get how much. I very nearly left them nothing….”

“You were that angry?”

“I had gone past anger. I was tired. And I wasn’t sure that I cared enough to do anything at all. But I was a man of business, and knew that if I did nothing, the lawyers would descend and grab as much of the goods as they could. And so I died, and was happy to do so.”

“Was there nothing good in your life?”

“Good? There were many things good, I suppose. You forget them,. You know, as you get older. Or rather, you stop seeking them. It was a pleasure, yes, to be young. I was strong, I was handsome, and I had drive. But then, I began to treasure my age. The body worked less well, yes, but that didn’t much matter. I was clearer, then, than I had been when I was young. And it was easier….”

“And so you lived….”

“I suppose. It wasn’t much of a life, really. I spent most of it building my business, and I did very well. But something happened—in the days when my wife and I had had nothing, we had each other, and that had been something. Everything, really. We used to joke that we had houseguests—referring to the roaches that we could never get rid of. And then, one day, we got our first house, and we made love that first night. I’ll never forget, making love that night. The bliss of being in a place of our own—a place we could make our own. I went to the bathroom, later, and I touched the walls, marveling, and saying ‘this is mine.’ Yes, happy—I think I was happy then….”

“You think? Didn’t you know?”

“Whoever knows when one is happy? And when you think that you are…well, should you be? Happiness is a sort of artifact. It’s the byproduct of a reaction, but just the byproduct. It means nothing, by itself…”

“Yet most people seek it.”

“Most people seek the things they should not. I did, for too many years. And then I was old, and quite tired, and did it make sense, really, to throw out everything I had worked for? So I played golf, and went to the clubs, and saw the same people and said the same things. I was bored, in the end….”

“Why didn’t you change?”

“Change? What would have been the point? Go off to Tahiti, and paint nudes under the tropical sun? At the end of my life, I could have bought Tahiti, and somehow, that alters things. Only a young, and poor, man can live on the beach, and paint the nudes. We older men pine for soft beds, drinks by the pool, and well-cooked food. More men have died in comfort than have ever died in prison….”

“And so you went on?”

“Yes. Because always there was the hope that the next day would be different. I would wake up, energized, and do…”

“Do?”

“I don’t know what. But I knew it was something. Something with meaning—something that would challenge me and stir me and lead me to a place I hadn’t been before.”

“And that place was?”

“To the center, perhaps. To the core of decisions. To the place where I could stop and rest. It had been an effort, all those years, to keep up the pretense.”

“What was the pretense?”

“My success. Because to succeed in business is easy, for most men. We’re built that way, just as we’re built for sports. But the terrible moment in business comes when you start to believe it. Your corporation, or your business, defines you. You believe the money and the success is you. And then it stops being fun, and you stop seeing the purpose of it all, and somehow, you keep working harder and harder, like a junkie, seeking a lost high. And then it’s eleven o’clock at night, and you’re checking emails and worrying about the foreign markets—what is the yen doing now? And you hear your wife stirring in the other room, and you know that she’s going down to make herself a drink, because she’s been doing that more and more. And at dinner, she has that glassy look, and she’s speaking too carefully, and you think, ‘oh God, not again.’ You should go out, you should confront her, and then you get angry, and you think, ‘oh, just let her drink to death. To hell with her!’ And then you remember when having a bottle of wine was a rarity, a special moment, an occasion. How you savored it, and made it last! We would both be a little tipsy, and I would be amorous, and the sex would seem special, hallowed. But now you have a wine cellar, and spend more for a bottle than you could ever have imagined, and in the end, it means nothing. Your wife gets up, the maid clears the table, and you both go into the library. She reads, perhaps, and you watch a game on television. It is another night in your life together.”

“That is what it had come to?”

“That is what it comes to.”

“For everybody?”

“I suspect. Good, in a way. Who could keep up that youthful passion? A tenement apartment filled with roaches is where a young man should be. But at 75? 80? You want space, a cleanliness, and a maid to take away the dishes and clean up. And deal with the roaches.”

“And so you were happy?”

“That word again! It has no place, you know. It means nothing, and to have it or to seek it, or even to value it enough to think about it—well, all that is a mistake.”

“Joy, then?”

“Ah, joy. There may be a place in the lexicon for joy. It is, at least, the consequence of something real, as happiness is so often not.”

“Sorrow?”

“I certainly knew it. I tried neither to avoid it nor wallow in it.“

“And so, what did you learn? What was your life about in the end?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I was born naked, and I died well-clothed, but little changed for all that. I lived a straightforward life, and I did well. My children didn’t have to struggle in quite the way I had to, and that was a good thing, I suppose. No, I have nothing to complain of.”

The vultures had been circling all during the conversation. Suddenly, he flung open  his arms and embraced them.