Varying Wildernesses

It’s one of those moments when you know intuitively that it’s true. When Susan Cain in the TED talk below tells introverts, “hey, it’s OK to withdraw—seek your wilderness, that’s where the creativity comes from,” I was back behind the building at work, looking on at the iguanas resting in the trees, or the egret sailing off lazily as the barking dogs attempted chase.

I had left behind a huge open office with little individual workspaces and four-foot partitions. The noise level was high, despite constant reminders to respect other people’s privacy and not to play loud music, have loud conversations, or—and this drove people nuts—go away from your desk leaving your cell phone blaring your favorite—and no one else’s—ringtone.

On Friday afternoons, all pretense of work or an office environment was dropped. People roamed the aisles, talked to their friends, laughed, planned—or actually started—their weekends.

Cain is right, as well, about the constant pressure to be in a group, to be a part of a group, to be contributing to the group, to be a leader in the group. Staff meetings were agony for me—I liked virtually all my coworkers individually, but together they drove me nuts.

First of all, nobody came on time. Second, there were constant interruptions. Third, the same people who always talked, well, always talked. So we always agreed to do whatever it was they had decided to do, and so why were we there? Was it really necessary to gather us all together to rubberstamp what was going to happen, anyway?

(When, by the way, did we decide that “rubberstamp” is one word? It seems ominous, somehow—as if it’s legitimizing something that very much shouldn’t be….)

Even worse was the portion of the meeting where a dinámica would be rolled out. The purpose was always some corporate hooey about increasing trust, fostering teamwork, building effective networks—whatever. Once, construction paper was passed out, and each person was given the name of a colleague. With glue and crayons, we were told to make a hat, and adorn on it some emblem or symbol of the person whose name we had been given.

I saw my hands making it, and watched in horror. To my right and left—as well as in front and behind—people were making orderly, ordinary hats. My own? Well it was a lop-sided affair that had three horns stuck out the top of it—God knows what I was thinking—and little paper dreadlocks hanging down the back. To this I applied colors that instantly clashed—I never got around to learning the color cycle, which is why I always wear black pants and a white shirt: that way the tie won’t clash…see?—and then began to contemplate what symbols I could impose upon my creation.

The problem being that the person whose name I had been given was absolutely the blandest creature I had ever met. Right, I thought, so I’ll just draw in some abstract figures, and let her figure it out.

It was a monstrosity: a misshapen, disfigured, cruel joke of a hat. What if I added some curls to the side?

Made it worse….

OK—string little doohickeys from the three horns?

Horrible.

The room had grown still, all were finished, all eyes were on my hands, wonderfully finding new ways to make the hat uglier. I myself watched in horror as the thing grew in hideousness, a hat with a terrible genetic malformation exposed to horrific blasts of radiation. At last, the director of the department put an end to it.

It was time—I had to present my hat. The problem being that my recipient was one of two colorless women who had the same position, very similar names, almost similar physiognomies…oh, and they always hung out together.

All I could do was call out her name….

She lifted her hand to her mouth and gasped as I marched the abortion over to her and wedged it one her head.

It got worse—I was asked to explain the meaning of the abstract figures I had scratched on the hat.

“Kindness,” I said, pointing to something that looked like a chewed up dog toy.

“Carefulness,” I said, thinking anybody so boring had to be careful.

And the last?

“Precision,” I said, and retreated to my chair.

At a certain point it was clear. When they announced the “realignment” (get with it—it’s no longer called a “restructuration”) it became obvious. All things come to an end. I had my meeting with the HR people from Bentonville, the meeting that began with the question, “now, what is it exactly that you do,” with the explanation followed by blank looks and noncommittal murmurings.

So the day when I came upon the most zealous of the dinámica guys filling up buckets of water before the staff meeting?

I couldn’t, I absolutely couldn’t bear to find out—would someone be blindfolded and told to carry the bucket of water through an obstacle course without spilling one drop—just by receiving feedback from the rest of his team?

I was free, I decided. Nothing I did was going to alter my course, change my destiny, save my job. I was coasting along to that Friday morning that indeed came—the one announced by the E-mail stating “your attendance is mandatory.”

So I can’t tell you, dear Reader, what manner of nonsense got done on that bucket of water. I was out, as ever, peering at iguanas, consoling myself with a warm bit of wilderness outside before plunging back into the madness inside.

Ordinary People, Heroic Acts

For the last two Saturdays in a row, I have taken two chairs, a pair of jeans and a shirt, a video camera, and a satchel with information cards and consent forms as well as two books, each containing about 350 pages, to a public square.

It’s the 30,000 Lives Project, in which I cheerfully consent to look completely ridiculous. My object is to read the randomly generated names of 30,000 people: the number of people who die every year of gunshot wounds.

Why do I do this?

I had to ask myself the question that first day—when I was visibly nervous. I had support, thank God. Raf was there, holding the sign that announced the project. Pablo was there, reading names and talking to people. Nydia strolled into the scene, kissed me and got right to work. Then doña Ilia strolled in and stole—blessedly though not surprisingly—the show.

The point is that nobody would have been on the plaza doing what I was doing if I hadn’t gotten pissed. The NRA was making me crazy—how many more massacres would it take before we had gun control? And yes, Facebook and the social media are fine—but all my friends think like me, for the most part. That’s why we’re friends.

So the real work wasn’t the ten hours of copying and pasting in the one hundred name batches that it took to generate the 724-page document. And the real expense wasn’t the hundred bucks spent on printing the books, fliers, consent forms or sign. The real effort was to put myself out there—to make a fool out of myself and to expose myself to the possible scorn of NRA members or gun “rights” advocates.

I don’t do well with conflict. Or so I thought, because when I encountered that first day a gun rights advocate, the conversation was surprisingly cordial. I heard him out, disagreed, and parted company. No big deal.

Well, it’s been two Saturdays—we’ve read six thousand of thirty thousand names, or 5% of the total. And we’ve spent 4 hours doing it. So it should take 80 hours to read the names of all the people who die of gunshot wounds in the United States. Yup—two full work weeks.

So now we know. But is it worth it? Do we get anything from having Marc and friends stand / sitting around in public reading names?

I think Philip Zimbardo would say yes. And he should know—having written my Psychology 101 textbook those many years ago. So I clicked on his TED talk, and was immediately hooked. It’s that old question—if you were a German in Nazi Germany, what would you do?

Sadly, we know what you would do. You would follow the crowd, go off to war, press the button that sends the poison gas into the nostrils of the Jews, gypsies and homosexuals in the chamber next door.

Or you wouldn’t. There was a German resistance, there were people hiding prisoners of war or Jews or anybody who needed hiding. So maybe you wouldn’t have colluded, maybe you would have been a hero, which is, according to Zimbardo…

…an ordinary person. A seamstress with tired feet, as Rosa Parks was that day she sat at the front of the bus. She didn’t wake up and say, “hey, I really oughta be a hero today,” she later said; she just had tired feet.

Years ago, at Wal-Mart, a motivational speaker concluded a talk by pulling out a dollar bill. He talked about how a person had given him a dollar bill with the message: go ahead, dream, follow your passion, you’re a leader and you can make change happen. So at every talk he gives, he pulls out a dollar bill and gives it to the person he sees having leadership potential.

There were about thirty people in an one-of-you-will-betray-me-moment—‘is it me?’

Well, I took the dollar in complete confusion, and did the only thing I could think of—put it under the laughing Buddha that then sat on my desk and now sits on my desk. And no—I haven’t spent it.

But if I was the person with the most leadership potential—and that guy really should cut out the morning bottle—it’s probably due to one thing.

I’m gay and I came out.

After you do that, you learn two things. First, that you can do it—that you can have the courage to face social disapproval, professional suicide, parental rejection. After that, standing in a plaza reading names is no big deal.

Second, going along with the crowd is not so important. Being liked is not so important. You realize—I’ll make my crowd, I’ll make my family, and no, I don’t have to have people like me.

Zimbardo talks briefly at the end of his talk about the bullying issue. And I agree with what I suspect would be his analysis—it’s stupid to tell a thirteen-year old kid “it gets better.” Sure, it’s true, and yeah, if feels good to say it. But do you remember how long time was when you were a kid? Christmas or a birthday took centuries to come around—now they pop up every other day.

I would tell these kids—“hey, you know what? There’s a reason you’re getting bullied, and it’s a good reason. You’re different, and that’s wonderful. There’s something special in you. I don’t know what it is, but I can sense it, and so can the kids around you, and they’re jealous ‘cause you’ve got something special, something to give, something unique. Do you know what it is?”

Kid looks up.

“Nah….”

“Well, that’s what we’re gonna find out….”

A Rich and Bankrupt Church

It’s a story at once byzantine and utterly evil. There is a man, a Father Maciel, who commits horrific acts of abuse against seminarians in his own seminary, in the seminary he has founded. This fact was acknowledged by the Vatican in a statement in 2010. Here’s Wikipedia on the matter:

The "very serious and objectively immoral acts" of Maciel, which were "confirmed by incontrovertible testimonies" represent "true crimes and manifest a life without scruples or authentic religious sentiment", the Vatican said.[31] The Vatican also stated that the Legion created a "mechanism of defense" around Maciel to shield him from accusations and suppress damaging witnesses from reporting abuse. "It made him untouchable," the Vatican said. The statement decried "the lamentable disgracing and expulsion of those who doubted" Maciel's virtue. The Vatican statement did not address whether the Legion's current leadership would face any sanctions.[32] Actions taken by the current Legion leadership will be scrutinized; but no specific sanctions were mentioned, amid suspicion that at least some of the current leaders must have been aware of Maciel's sins. The Vatican acknowledged the "hardships" faced by Maciel's accusers through the years when they were ostracized or ridiculed, and commended their "courage and perseverance to demand the truth."

“No, Marc,” you are groaning. “enough with the sexual abuse scandals in the Catholic church. Basta ya!”

Well, you may have a point. But this is a story that hasn’t been much heard. The YouTube clip—actually four clips of 15 minutes each—has only been seen by some 1900 people. That’s nothing in YouTube terms. And this is a story that, yes, is as saturated with abuse as a wet dog. But it also is about something often linked to sex…

…money.

Father Maciel, born in Cotija de la Paz, Michoacán, Mexico in 1920, barely made it to the priesthood—two seminaries kicked him out, and no other seminary would touch him. So he was tutored privately, and then wealthy connections greased his way into the priesthood. And he was on the Vatican’s screen early on—in 1956 he was hospitalized for drug abuse in Rome, and suspended as a priest. But he slipped back in during the interregnum between popes—the Secretary of State for the Vatican reappoints him head of the congregation.

What congregation, you ask.

Maciel founded the Legion of Christ in 1941, with the help of his uncle, a bishop. And Maciel was a charismatic leader, who followed a well-established tactic for gaining power. Go after the rich, especially the rich women, and better yet, old rich women.

And he certainly did well. Here’s a statement from the National Catholic Reporter: “By 2004, the Legion had a $650 million budget and $1 billion in assets for the prep schools, seminaries and universities in Latin America, Europe and North America.”

Macel also was, according to another source, the greatest fundraiser to the Catholic Church in modern times.

That makes you friends, and friends he had. Certainly in the Catholic world—the prominent Catholic thinker Richard John Neuhaus defended him, called charges against Maciel “scurrilous.” Carlos Slim, the world’s richest guy is a pal, as is William Bennett, the former Secretary of Education turned-CNN commentator.

And the biggest pal of all was John Paul II, who praised him lavishly on the first trip ever of a pope to Mexico.

Money, Dear Reader, doesn’t talk—it’s sings, it lures, it clouds and befuddles the intellect, not to mention the moral scheme, as effectively as those vials that filled a large suitcase that Maciel showed to a legionary.

Yes, by the 80’s or 90’s, Maciel no longer had to send seminarians to the hospital, to plead for more drugs for the founder of Legion of Christ. A doctor had given him carte blanche to mix as much of the opiate as he wanted.

He was “sick,” went the story, and in great pain.

Well, the sick part I believe, though not quite in the sense intended.

He also fostered sickness. The legionaries are told never, ever, to criticize Maciel, and to snitch on those who do. They are taken as teenagers and told only to send letters once a month to their parents. Worse, they are allowed to see their parents once every seven years, according to one parent, a heartbroken woman form Elk Grove, Wisconsin. Their Internet access is restricted, their letters home are censored.

Remember—this was the thing that got the Moonies in trouble—or at least earned them a few black marks, in the public eye.

This would be bad enough—the abuse, the cultism that prompted the bishops of Cincinnati and Columbus to ban the Legion from their dioceses. And speaking of abuse, it seems that Maciel swung both ways, fathering as many as—perhaps—six children.

What’s worse?

The Vatican knew all this.

It’s the familiar story. Nine victims of Father Maciel lodged a formal complaint in the Vatican. Incredibly, even as the investigation was continuing, the Vatican then announced that it had stopped the investigation. Later, the Vatican announced to the victims that the case had been shelved.

In 2004, the victims get a letter—the case has been reopened. The letter is from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, headed by Ratzinger, who, as I wearily point out, had directed that ALL cases of priestly abuse be sent to his desk.

And Ratzinger has a little moral dilemma. Here’s the Catholic Reporter again on the subject:

"Ratzinger wanted to elevate John Paul to beatification," said Barba, coauthor of La Voluntad de No Saber ("The Will Not to Know"), an analysis of Vatican documents on Maciel. The book's publication last March and Benedict's refusal to meet with Maciel victims on a trip to Mexico ignited an onslaught of bad press for the pope. Benedict had to reckon with the embarrassment of John Paul's praise of Maciel after the 1998 case, in essence scoffing at allegations against one of the most notorious sexual criminals in church history. By keeping a lid on Maciel's secret life, Barba said, Benedict hoped "to defend the sainthood case against the accusations that John Paul protected predators."

Well, it’s another case of a morally bankrupt man who heads a church of 1.2 billion people of doing anything to promote his church. This man, who meets with abuse survivors, who prays with them, sheds tears with them, values a canonization over the truth.

Which had it been told might have swayed the mind of a devoted legionary, a widow named Gabrielle D. Mee, who left 60 million bucks to the Legion in 2008. The family is suing, stating that Mee would never have given the money had she known that the founder of the organization was a pervert who had fathered children as well.

That’s interesting, but hardly the point that concerns me.

At three this morning I was eating pizza and reading a piece by John Cornwell, a writer and Catholic known for his book Hitler’s Pope. He points out that the death—and now resignation—of a pope doesn’t remove just one man, but the entire curia, the administration of the church. The top guys all lose their jobs, and new guys are put into their place. And yes, Cornwell completely buys in to the theory published in the Italian press that the report commissioned by the three cardinals reveals sexual and fiscal misdeeds at the top level of the curia.

Which may be the reason Ratzinger isn’t returning to the beloved Germany of his birth. He can’t. He has to stay, and work with the new pope.

Here’s the question: is he staying to clean up?

Or cover up?

Shared Secretarial Services

Two days ago, I wrote a post about the case of Stephen Kiesle, a child molester and priest who was convicted in 1978 of tying up two boys and having sex with them. Kiesle then wanted out of the priesthood, and the bishop of Oakland, California, couldn’t have agreed more. And so a correspondence with Rome began.

Correspondence may not be the word—it was really a written monologue directed at Rome. True, there was an early response asking for more documents, but then… nothing. Oakland wrote several letters over the years, pointing out the conviction, stressing the potential for scandal. Finally, the answer came. Evoking the good of the church, the common good, the need for pastoral care for the priest / molester, Ratzinger said no deal.

Two years later, the priest was finally defrocked. He then went on to molest again, and eventually served prison time. He lives now as a registered sex offender.

I am, as you can see, fascinated by the character of this man, Joseph Ratzinger, whose life story seems to be one of finding himself in events or times saturated with evil, and dealing ambiguously with it.

His biographer points out that he grew up in a heavily Catholic town with virulent anti-Semitism. He is inducted into the Hitler Youth—it was mandatory—and also, later, into the army. He doesn’t fire a shot in the army, nor was he particularly active in the Hitler Youth. Nor does he resist, though the Nazis had seized and murdered his cousin, a 14 year-old child with Down’s syndrome.

Later, he’s teaching at the same university as Hans Küng, the prominent theologian who has at times been a thorn in the Catholic Church’s side. Küng describes Ratzinger as initially liberal, until the student turmoil of the sixties. Students rushed in protest into his classroom; the rigid German, Ratzinger, was appalled by their demands, their conduct, their clothes and grooming.

He steps onto a path that will take him into an increasingly more rigid, repressed, authoritarian, absolute world. Finally, at the end of his life, he confronts evil again, as each week he reads the reports of the sex abuse in his church. And he knows, better than anyone, the magnitude of the problem because he’s given the order: all cases of sexual abuse come to his desk.

Given this fascinating, if rigid, man, I was of course watching via YouTube Ratzinger boarding the helicopter that would take him to Castel Gandolfo. And I was reading the comments as well, one of which was adulatory: you’ve been the best pope ever, thank you, Benedict, for your wonderful service to the church.

I had just written of the Kiesle affair, and had spent the morning reading the letters the diocese had sent and the reply that—after years of silence—Ratzinger had sent. So I posted a comment back, disagreeing, and giving as much of the Kiesle story as I could, in 150 characters or less (I used all but three).

There was—you’re expecting this, right?—the predictable response. I was accused of spreading lies and distortions. That I expected. What lifted the eyebrows was the sentence, “nobody has done more for ridding the Catholic Church of homosexual filth than Benedict.”

True, in a way. Very early on, Ratzinger made it clear to the seminaries—check out those guys. Any seminarian who won’t toe the line, who won’t play by the rules, who comes out and says, “hey, I’m gay—so?” is out. It was back to the fifties—a time of clear, unambiguous repression. 

I could have responded, pointing out that I had spent most of the morning reading the documents of the Kiesle affair, but instead I deleted the comment—from my computer, at least. Mentally, it rankled for a day or two.

Today, I read that the redoubtable Andrew Sullivan has blogged that Ratzinger is gay. No, not that he’s acting on it, but that he is innately gay, and has spent a lifetime repressing it. And he offers several clues that this may be true—Ratzinger’s voice, his scrupulous… but wait, Sullivan does it much better than I. Here he is on the subject.

At times, it seems to me, his gayness is almost wince-inducing. The prissy fastidiousness, the effeminate voice, the fixation on liturgy and ritual, and the over-the-top clothing accessories are one thing. But what resonates with me the most is a theology that seems crafted from solitary introspection into a perfect, abstract unity of belief. It is so perfect it reflects a life of withdrawal from the world of human relationship, rather than an interaction with it.

Sullivan wrote these words in 2010. Today, in 2013, he writes:

The damage Benedict XVI has done to the Catholic church and the papacy may be far from over. All I can say about yesterday’s developments is that they seem potentially disastrous and also indicative to me of something truly weird going on underneath all of this.

Well, it has to be said, there is something strange about a man who, reportedly, has never much liked the Vatican and—equally reportedly—misses his family and native land who then decides to stay in the Vatican. Why? His will be a life of seclusion and prayer; he is withdrawing and giving his absolute obedience to the new pope. Wouldn’t it be prudent to do that many hundred miles away, in a land that speaks his language, where his brother is at hand to chat with, to reminisce, to remember the happy days of a Nazi childhood?

Or is he staying around because of this?

Yes, this hunk, Padre Georg, has been the personal secretary of the previous pope for some time—they met when Ratzinger was head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. And now, it seems that this ex-pope, who is now in seclusion, praying for the welfare of his beloved church, still feels the need to have a secretary. So Padre Georg will spend the evenings and nights with Ratzinger, and then trot over to fulfill his other secretarial duties with the new pope.

See?

And here is Sullivan quoting Padre Georg—wicked tongues call him gay.org—giving us a little peep into the day of a pontiff:

The pope’s day begins with the seven o’clock Mass, then he says prayers with his breviary, followed by a period of silent contemplation before our Lord. Then we have breakfast together, and so I begin the day’s work by going through the correspondence. Then I exchange ideas with the Holy Father, then I accompany him to the ‘Second Loggia’ for the private midday audiences. Then we have lunch together; after the meal we go for a little walk before taking a nap. In the afternoon I again take care of the correspondence. I take the most important stuff which needs his signature to the Holy Father.

Well, that’s a cozy picture—the breakfast and lunches together, the exchange of ideas, that afternoon nap.

Dear Reader, please believe me—I accuse the Holy Father of absolutely no impropriety. Yes, in the presence of such a sex-god, I would be stripping and kneeling as fast as I could, but I think the pope has / does not.

Twin thoughts on Ratzinger—he must keep this man as a constant and terrible reminder of what he has given up, what he has repressed, what he loves and what he cannot express or especially possess. He is a man in love who has never loved and who—obviously—cannot give up the man to whom he has never given himself. It’s a fascinating, religious / erotic hair shirt; a spiritual / psychosexual session with the scourge. He cannot tear himself away.

Could you?

And incredibly, he expects the whole world to believe this.

Second thought—what in hell is the next pope gonna do about this?

Sacred Headwaters

I am living in a place that is a paradox: Puerto Rico is the poorest by far of any of the fifty states in terms on annual income. Despite that, we also consume an insane amount of goods and energy.

Each day I walk between the walls of the fort, El Morro, and the entrance to the harbor. The walls of El Morro are impressive, of course, soaring as they do hundreds of feet above me. No less impressive are the three or four ships containing scores of 46 feet trailers I see entering the harbor daily, all jammed with stuff that we need, we think.

And what do we produce?

Junk metals, says my friend Harry, and nothing else. Nothing Puerto Rico produces can compete with the same item produced somewhere else. Specialty items such as gourmet coffee, yes. A farm down in the southeast owned by Israelis grows wonderful mangos to be sold at 10 pounds each in Fortnum and Mason. The pharmaceutical industry that was our lifeblood—all of that Valium that kept those stay-at-home-moms smiling in the fifties and sixties came from Puerto Rico—is moribund. The only thing we produce is trash. Our only industry is junk metal.

There are other places in the world, of course—places that have never been touched by man, or if they have, have been touched only lightly: a paddle in a river, a camp fire on its shore, a wolf killed by bow and arrow.

I’m thinking this morning of such a place, the Sacred Headwaters of northwest British Columbia. I knew vaguely about it but didn’t. I have, in a sense, eaten from it, since the three major rivers that flow from the headwaters are the source of wild salmon.

As you’ll see from the clip of author / photographer / anthropologist Wade Davis below—I can well believe that John Muir, exploring just a third of it, came away stunned. It’s vast as well, isolated, and…

…rich in minerals, metals, and energy sources.

You’ll see where this is going, so let me tell you at once, the story ends both happily and uncertainly. Or put it this way—one battle has been won, the war continues.

The battle won took place between Shell Canada and the native people inhabiting the land, the Tahltan. (It does occur to me that the computer is quick to criticize—that famous red squiggle—but never actually thanks me when I teach it a new word….) Shell had a little project—it covered only a million acres or so—to extract “coal bed methane gas.”

Into this group steps the First Nations, which to my shame I knew nothing about. But I can tell you now that it’s a coalition of roughly 630 aboriginal peoples of Canada who are not Inuit or Métis. Altogether, there are some 700,000 First Nations people in Canada, and not many of them were enthused about Shell’s proposed project. In addition, the Pembina Institute released a report indicating that no one had ever done this on salmon-bearing headwaters. Was it really a good idea to go ahead with the project and wait and see what happens?

Well, apparently the government of British Columbia thought not, and on 18 December 2012, the government announced that Shell would relinquish it tenure on the land and also that oil and natural / methane gas development would be banned.

That’s the victory—and a true victory it was.

But it’s just the first battle, because there are over 40 projects—some OK, some terrible—proposed for the region, according to Davis. There’s the Red Chris Mine, about which the company has to say:

Imperial is working towards development of a 30,000 ton per day open pit mine to commence operations upon completion of the Northwest Transmission Line [www.highway37.com]. Red Chris anticipates being able to connect to the Northwest Transmission Line at the Bob Quinn hydro station approx. 120 km from the proposed mill site by early 2014. Provincial and Federal environmental approvals for the project have been received. Mines Act permitting through the Northwest Mine Development Review Committee is underway.

Sounds great, hunh? Curious, though, that nothing is being said about all the soil removed, and all the toxic byproducts that will be generated by the process. What’s Imperial gonna do about all that?

Well, Imperial has stated that it will follow traditional—I can’t say time-honored—practice. Which means…

…dump it in the river.

Given that there are a proposed thirty years of this, how soon will it be that the Sacred Headwaters becomes New Jersey?

And yes, nice that there is no gas and petroleum to be “developed.” But what about coal? The very day after the British Columbia government announced the ban on petroleum and methane gas, Fortune Minerals said they were going through with their project, into which they have sunk over $100 million. According to one source, the company has “undertaken the British Columbian Environmental Assessment,” but what does that verb “undertaken” mean? Has the project been approved or not? They company, of course, claims the project will be “sustainable,” but look at the picture below, their pilot plant from 1985.

Guys? I think you know my answer….

At the end of the clip, Davis finally says the obvious. Rushing around trying to figure out the merits of over 40 projects and then fighting the deep corporate pockets of multinational behemoths is crazy. There are some places so beautiful, so unspoiled, so rich in spiritual and ecological worth that they are not to be touched. There needs to be protection for the Sacred Headwaters.

Davis, in another clip, talks about the days when passenger pigeons darkened the sky, and could topple a tree with their weight. Or the buffalo, which completely covered the Dakota landscape. I could add the accounts of the first European settlers to North America, who didn’t need to fish but to scoop up the fish on board that were jumping onto the ship.

Three or four years ago, I stepped on to a small patch of pristine prairie that had remarkably survived being incorporated into Wisconsin cornfield. The experience was unremarkable—three feet or so of prairie doesn’t have much to say.

Three hundred million acres—an amount I am cheerfully making up—of prairie would tell another story.

Click on the link below. Do it yes, for the Sacred Headwaters, and yes for the Tahltan peoples….

…but especially for us all.

  http://www.sacredheadwaters.com/

The Case Against Cardinal Ratzinger

I had read about it in my days at Wal-Mart, when I spent a lot of time on the Internet, ostensibly cruising for articles for the students to read, really just killing time. Everybody could see the train hurtling towards us, and most of us were tied with fear to the tracks. I would run through the office at class-time, rounding up the students, who promised to come to class, and variably did. It left a lot of time for reading.

So I had stumbled across the Minnesota lawyer, Jeff Anderson, who has made it his business—in both senses—to represent victims of sexual abuse. And today, he’s telling, via CNN, the next pope the sensible steps that need to be taken to protect kids from their priests.

Anderson, of course, comes at the question with—if not bias—at least a definite point of view. But even so, I was surprised by this statement:

He issued Vatican orders directing cardinals, archbishops and bishops to keep credibly accused priests in ministry, to move them to a different parish or to keep them in the priesthood because they were too young, too infirm or their removal would cause too much scandal for the church.

Well, that’s pretty strong. The question, of course, is whether it’s true.

Short answer—yes.

The church’s own evidence hangs them.

The paper trail begins in 1981, when the Church of the Good Shepherd writes a letter to the then head of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (strongly thought about omitting capitals, as well as putting in quotes…) concerning a priest who wants out. Seems he had—remember that old demon?—a dominant, and very Catholic mother, who pushed her kid into the seminary, and then gloated about and basked in it in social circles.

The son, Stephen Kiesle, had a curious habit. It was almost impossible, the letter states, to get him to do stuff like visit the sick, counsel families or individuals, or any of the other little jobs that priests are supposed to do. Instead, he wants to…

…do I have to finish that sentence?

Right, so he was working in the CCD program with children and teens. But curiously, it’s only mentioned in the sixth paragraph that he’s committed some “improprieties” with the kids.

Two weeks later, the Diocese of Oakland writes, also recommending that the priest request for dispensation from his holy vow of becoming a priest. In this letter, the same “improper” behaviors are mentioned, as well as the fact that they were publicized and attracted great attention.

A month later, the bishop writes to the pope, and for the first time drops the news—in 1978 he was arrested and charged with “having sex with at least six young men between the ages of eleven and thirteen.”

Young men? How about teenagers, minimally, if not children?

So Kiesle fights nails and teeth (uñas y dientes) to clear his name, right? Wrong—“like Jesus,” he decides not to answer the charges against him, and pleads nolo contendere. So he’s given a three-year suspended sentence, and told to go into therapy.

Remember—there’s no evidence that anyone writes to the Vatican in 1978 with this news that has been so widely reported. The diocese first writes—apparently—when Kiesle decides he wants out.

Well then, the letters send the Vatican into a fluster of activity, right?

You’re not batting too high, today. In November, the Vatican writes back, asking for documents, but not, if my aged Latin serves me, anything more than ordination papers and the like.

Well, it’s a new year, 1982—four years after his conviction—and nothing is happening. John Cummins, Bishop of Oakland, writes first in February, then in September.

No response. Oh, except that in an interoffice memo it seems that the Vatican did write, saying that the “matter would be addressed at the appropriate time.” More damning, the Vatican apparently has received the case of the sexual abuse filed against Kiesle, which Oakland had sent on July 15, 1983.

So it’s another new year and Cummins writes again, mentioning the case and asking for “any information you can give.”

For eighteen months, nothing happens. Then Cummins writes directly to Ratzinger—who had, you remember, requested those documents four years ago—asking what’s up. And in November of 1985—eight years after Kiesle’s conviction, four years after the matter was brought to the attention of the Vatican—Ratzinger writes back:

Most Excellent Bishop

Having received your letter of September 13 of this year, regarding the matter of the removal from all priestly burdens pertaining to Rev. Stephen Miller Kiesle in your diocese, it is my duty to share with you the following:

This court, although it regards the arguments presented in favor of removal in this case to be of grave significance, nevertheless deems it necessary to consider the good of the Universal Church together with that of the petitioner, and it is also unable to make light of the detriment that granting the dispensation can provoke with the community of Christ's faithful, particularly regarding the young age of the petitioner.

It is necessary for this Congregation to submit incidents of this sort to very careful consideration, which necessitates a longer period of time.

In the meantime your Excellency must not fail to provide the petitioner with as much paternal care as possible and in addition to explain to same the rationale of this court, which is accustomed to proceed keeping the common good especially before its eyes.

Let me take this occasion to convey sentiments of the highest regard always to you.

Your most Reverend Excellency

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger

(Text of 1985 Letter From Future Pope Benedict)

Following is the text of a November 1985 letter in Latin signed by then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger to Oakland Bishop John S. Cummins. It was translated for The Associated Press by Thomas Habinek, chairman of the University of Southern California Classics Department.

Well, the boys in Oakland are scratching their heads over this one, but as an interoffice memo in the diocese states, it seems that “they (the Vatican) are basically going to sit on it until Steve gets quite a bit older.” So what to do?

Let me not make the same mistake as Ratzinger.

And that is, you ask?

Lose sight of the fact that we’re talking about kids. The good of the Universal Church is considered, his Excellency mustn’t be lacking in giving a child molester “pastoral care,” the common good is invoked, but none of them can get it into their heads—we got a priest fucking around with kids.

Oh, wait—finally someone does. And guess what? It’s a woman.

Who doesn’t write so much as snort and snarl.

She tries to be civil: “I need to inform you of my concern that a convicted child molester is currently the youth ministry coordinator at St. Joseph’s Parish in Pinole.”

She loses it, however, when she considers that she has been waving the red flag for eight months, and now Steve is planning his participation for Youth Day NEXT YEAR (her caps, not mine). 

Finally, in 1987, Kiesle was defrocked. In 2002, he was again arrested and charged with 13 counts of child molestation. In 2004, he was again arrested, and convicted to 6 years for a molestation in 1995.

He’s now living as a registered sex offender in Walnut Creek.

No Frigging Way

OK—a guy I don‘t know wrote a comment on my Facebook page to Taí, who had posted the piece I wrote on Ratzinger yesterday. And the unknown guy suggested that “the same people who made homosexuality a sexual orientation are now declaring pedophilia a sexual orientation.”

Say what?

Seems like a slur, doesn’t it, on a par with suggesting that allowing gay men to marry will inevitably lead to men marrying their dogs? But it’s an unimpeachable source—The Guardian—and so worth looking up.

Confession—I have nothing to confess. I have never knowingly had sex with a minor, even when I was, in fact, a minor. I say this with no pride—this is not a matter of heroic efforts at self-control. I’m just not into it.

I am into guys—I know that’s a shocker—however, and I spent seven years at Wal-Mart and thirteen years at Inlingua teaching them. And in all of that time, how many of those students did I bed?

Zero.

And why not? They were of age, there was no coercion, the question of a grade didn’t really enter into the equation. Why not, after class, have a beer or two, and then slip down Highway 1—famous for its motels that rent by the hour, not the day—and have a good time?

I hate to say it, but there’s some stuff you just don’t do. What about Raf, sitting at home, wondering where I am? What about me, washing up afterward, feeling guilty and stupid? What about the student, who I will see in two days—how’s that class gonna go?

There was, in fact, a student who put the make on me. “You have beautiful eyes,” he told me, and went on to ask my home phone number. I ignored both the comment and the question, and Ofelia transferred him to a female teacher.

OK—so I read the article. The question, it seems, is both whether pedophilia is harmful to the victim / recipient and whether the perpetuator / predator can change.

Now then—I am technically a victim of pedophilia, since I was 17-and-a-half when my uncle put the make on me. And of course I went along with it—I didn’t know any other gay men, I couldn’t imagine that there were other gay men, this was probably going to be the only sex I would have in my life.

Yes, that’s how naïve I was.

Which may be the issue I have with it. It is, on the face of it, silly to assume that something happens on the eve of an 18^th birthday, and that the child who is vulnerable and prone to predation goes to bed and wakes up an adult capable of making mature decisions. Silly—but also necessary. And we make the same arbitrary judgments about drinking, driving, and going off to war.

Now then—did it harm me, that tryst in a public park with an older man, my uncle?

At the time I felt no, later I felt yes, now I’m not sure.

However much I “consented,” it can’t be said that we were both equal partners. He was older, smarter, and wore the mantle of an adult. I was a kid—and a pretty stupid one.

Not like Raf, who takes a very different view of the pedophile cases. In Latin culture, you assume the priest is gay. And your big brother tells you—Padre Pablo is gonna put the make on you, if you let him. So he touches you anywhere, or tries to, you come to me, and I’ll deal with him.

To Raf, it’s as inconceivable that a kid wouldn’t know that the priest was gay as a kid growing up in the country not knowing about sex. I mean, you live on a farm—what do you see all day? A lot of animals humping.

So he doesn’t buy it—the trauma, the anguish, the life-long effects of betrayal and pain.

It may be a cultural thing. Whatever effect the “victimization” had on the 17 year-old Marc, it certainly wouldn’t have been the same if I had been seven. I was traumatized in second grade by having library fines I couldn’t pay—how would I have reacted to knowing that I had done something bad, evil, something I could never tell anyone? And something that I couldn’t stop, and that would happen again?

So yeah—I like my life simple. It’s easier to tell the truth, and not have to remember a lie. It’s simpler to keep your dick in your pants unless you’re with your spouse, in which case…whee! And at Wal-Mart, I worried when inadvertently I walked home with a pen that I had absentmindedly stuck in my shirt pocket. Am I gonna lose my job over a “stolen” pen?

But here’s my question—when did we decide that a compulsion / behavior that you cannot stop becomes an “orientation?” I freely grant that most pedophiles return to their pedophile behavior. But if some men are serial rapists, is rape a sexual orientation? All the guys who have a fetish for stiletto heels—is that a sexual orientation?

I might give you a pass on a relationship with a 17-year-old. But a seven-year-old?

No frigging way.