Following the terror attacks in Paris, a friend and I engaged in a long chat about the ramifications in this country. Specifically, we discussed what to do with our borders. I love this friend like a brother and am grateful that we can discuss these issues civilly, with the ability to "agree to disagree". And, boy, do we disagree on this one. The discussion was prompted by an internet meme (that ever thoughtful tool of debate) suggesting, that in the wake of the Paris incidents, Donald Trump's plan to build a wall didn't look so bad now, huh? A simplistic meme that led to a substantive, nuanced discussion between us. Said friend wants to close our borders. Lock them up tight for an undetermined period of time, even temporarily suspending the approval of legal immigrants already in the pipeline. I think this is a terrible idea. Basically, we argued back and forth for the better part of an hour, as fast as our fingers could type. The fun I had debating him belies the seriousness of the situation, a situation which weighs heavily upon our future and potentially possesses grave consequences.
I have thought deeply (yes, I am capable of that sometimes) about our conversation and would like to share some thoughts it sparked in me. I know many will disagree with me, perhaps even think me naïve, too idealistic, or foolish. Think away, for I am confident in my beliefs. But also, challenge me if you disagree, because these things are too important to not discuss. Intelligent, relevant, willing-to-actually-listen-to-a-counterpoint conversations are refreshing and necessary. And so much better than sticking our heads in the sand, calling each other names, or worrying what the Kardashians are up to.
To be blunt, I disagree with the notion of closing the borders. Safety is always provided as the reason for such an action; we don't know who is coming in. The problem with this argument is those who wish to do us harm are already here. ISIS has been recruiting with a scope rarely seen before. Their reach, through the internet and social media, means they can recruit anywhere, anytime. They prey upon the gullible, the weak-minded, those made malleable by feeling disenfranchised or hopeless. They can foment hatred and disdain from a laptop. ISIS doesn't have to send in boogey men from a desert stronghold, they are planning and plotting with people either already here or people born here. Home-grown terror plots frighten me. Putting up a wall or telling a Swiss family preparing to legally emigrate that they must wait will not likely keep out any Trojan Horses. If the thought is to only close borders until we figure out a better screening process I fear we will never get there. Where is the line? When would we be safe "enough"?
Elsewhere on Facebook this week, I saw another meme designed to scare. It was a photo of a person dressed in traditional Muslim garb, in this instance with only the eyes uncovered. The text accompanying the photo read, "Who is behind the mask? Man? Woman? Terrorist? You don't know do you? This is a risk to our security and should be banned in all public places. Share if you agree!" Are we serious with this? Let's break this down. One, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, not just dressed like Hollywood's stock version. Two, can I not wear a ski mask out when it is cold or cover my face on Halloween because I might be mistaken for a terrorist? Three, are there not many articles of clothing that could obscure weapons? I don't see a great rush to ban trench coats or backpacks in public. Oh man, that nun might have a shotgun in her robes, we'd better not let her wear that in public! Look, that judge might have a bomb under there, let's force him to preside in his underpants! Folks, this type of fear-mongering prejudice is disgusting and shameful. A little green friend once cautioned an entire generation that, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering." Let's not give in to our fear. I thought I covered this way back in 2006. Maybe if I had more than four readers I could have gotten the message out.
So, why is it important that we don't close the borders, or ban burquas or vaporize the entire sandy desert of the Middle East into a sheet of glass? Because we are America, dammit! Donald Trump wants to make America great again, but I submit what made America great was taking in "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door." America has been, and must remain, a beacon of hope. We must never compromise our ideals. If we are willing to be anything less than the place the world seeks out to pursue their dreams, then what are we even fighting for? What will we mean when we say ,"The American Way"? We are a nation of immigrants that is neither infallible, nor perfect. If we forget this, we have already lost.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Wednesday, November 04, 2015
Stall Tactics
"I am calm!", she screamed at me, tears streaming down her red face. Clearly my seven-year-old and I have different definitions of calm. One thing we can agree on, however, is that getting ready for school shouldn't be this hard.
Many mornings start quaintly, the morning sun streaming through the window, the intoxicating scent of bacon wafting through the house. Smiles, high-fives and laughter are our currency. Then at some mysterious moment that I'll be damned if I can identify the entire "transaction" of school preparation turns South. Maybe at some point my sweet kid goes off the rails because she is seven. Or because she is female. Or because she is a tiny psycopath in panda pajamas.
I say the cause is mysterious, but you don't have to Andy Sipowicz to figure out almost every time a morning hits the skids it is when Grace is asked to switch from Gracie Time to Real World Time. Grace could la-dee-da her way through an entire day. Believe me, I wish I could too. Yet, the pesky school system decides when school begins, not Grace. The girl refuses to bound by time constraints. When I tell her we have to leave in a half hour, I might as well tell her we have to leave in six months or 12 parsecs. And this is why we clash. Despite learning in therapy to ease my anxiety by relinquishing the idea of controlling every detail bouncing around in my head, I hold on to the notion that getting out the door on time is one thing that I can control. If only my stubborn, independent, free spirit daughter would co-operate. (I chuckled simply typing that sentence.) Normally, I love that Grace is independent and care-free, but sometimes when it is time to go, IT IS TIME TO GO.
When faced with a deadline Grace slows the pace. I don't necessarily mean she moves slower, she just stalls by doing everything but what she should be doing. Former Major League baseball player Mike Hargrove earned the nickname The Human Rain Delay with his habit of stepping out of the batter's box between each pitch to engage in a ritual of adjusting his equipment thereby grinding each at-bat to a snail's pace. Grace is my personal Human Rain Delay.
A typical sideways morning goes something like this:
Me: "Grace, please finish your cereal so you can go upstairs and finish getting ready."
G: "Can I have a piece of candy?"
"Of course not, candy is not a breakfast food. Please finish."
" But you gave me like a hundred grapes."
"It was 10. Please go upstairs to get dressed."
"Okay, Daddy. First, may I show you my new cartwheel/somersault/jumpkick/dance move?"
"No, please go upstairs to get dressed."
*Does cartwheel/somersault/jump kick/dance move anyway.*
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. As soon as I say good morning to Mama Kitty."
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. Let me just clean up my markers."
"No. Please go upstairs."
"Right after I put on these fifteen bracelets."
"Why are you not walking up the stairs?"
"Because I am waiting to walk up with you, my special daddy."
*Deep breath, choke down the rage, trudge upstairs, send her into her room to get dressed.*
Ten minutes later...
"Why are you not dressed?"
"Oh, I have been standing in the mirror practicing every hair style I will need,like, ever."
This invariably leads me to shout something extremely helpful like "JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!" or "WE HAVE TO GO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE, FIND SOME SOCKS!" To which she starts whining about needing help putting on her socks. Putting on her socks? If I had said we had two minutes to get to the playground she could have pulled off a Houdini underwater straight jacket escape, but something I need her to do? Forget it. At this point, Grace is lucky I don't possess the Force. If I did, she'd be gasping and clawing at her throat like one of Vader's Imperial flunkies. So we clash, we get pissed over socks, and she ends up red-faced professing her calmness.
I struggle to find the line between running an efficient, disciplined household and having a happy-go-lucky child. Today, I think I will look for it at the bottom of a beer mug.
Many mornings start quaintly, the morning sun streaming through the window, the intoxicating scent of bacon wafting through the house. Smiles, high-fives and laughter are our currency. Then at some mysterious moment that I'll be damned if I can identify the entire "transaction" of school preparation turns South. Maybe at some point my sweet kid goes off the rails because she is seven. Or because she is female. Or because she is a tiny psycopath in panda pajamas.
I say the cause is mysterious, but you don't have to Andy Sipowicz to figure out almost every time a morning hits the skids it is when Grace is asked to switch from Gracie Time to Real World Time. Grace could la-dee-da her way through an entire day. Believe me, I wish I could too. Yet, the pesky school system decides when school begins, not Grace. The girl refuses to bound by time constraints. When I tell her we have to leave in a half hour, I might as well tell her we have to leave in six months or 12 parsecs. And this is why we clash. Despite learning in therapy to ease my anxiety by relinquishing the idea of controlling every detail bouncing around in my head, I hold on to the notion that getting out the door on time is one thing that I can control. If only my stubborn, independent, free spirit daughter would co-operate. (I chuckled simply typing that sentence.) Normally, I love that Grace is independent and care-free, but sometimes when it is time to go, IT IS TIME TO GO.
When faced with a deadline Grace slows the pace. I don't necessarily mean she moves slower, she just stalls by doing everything but what she should be doing. Former Major League baseball player Mike Hargrove earned the nickname The Human Rain Delay with his habit of stepping out of the batter's box between each pitch to engage in a ritual of adjusting his equipment thereby grinding each at-bat to a snail's pace. Grace is my personal Human Rain Delay.
A typical sideways morning goes something like this:
Me: "Grace, please finish your cereal so you can go upstairs and finish getting ready."
G: "Can I have a piece of candy?"
"Of course not, candy is not a breakfast food. Please finish."
" But you gave me like a hundred grapes."
"It was 10. Please go upstairs to get dressed."
"Okay, Daddy. First, may I show you my new cartwheel/somersault/jumpkick/dance move?"
"No, please go upstairs to get dressed."
*Does cartwheel/somersault/jump kick/dance move anyway.*
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. As soon as I say good morning to Mama Kitty."
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. Let me just clean up my markers."
"No. Please go upstairs."
"Right after I put on these fifteen bracelets."
"Why are you not walking up the stairs?"
"Because I am waiting to walk up with you, my special daddy."
*Deep breath, choke down the rage, trudge upstairs, send her into her room to get dressed.*
Ten minutes later...
"Why are you not dressed?"
"Oh, I have been standing in the mirror practicing every hair style I will need,like, ever."
This invariably leads me to shout something extremely helpful like "JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!" or "WE HAVE TO GO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE, FIND SOME SOCKS!" To which she starts whining about needing help putting on her socks. Putting on her socks? If I had said we had two minutes to get to the playground she could have pulled off a Houdini underwater straight jacket escape, but something I need her to do? Forget it. At this point, Grace is lucky I don't possess the Force. If I did, she'd be gasping and clawing at her throat like one of Vader's Imperial flunkies. So we clash, we get pissed over socks, and she ends up red-faced professing her calmness.
I struggle to find the line between running an efficient, disciplined household and having a happy-go-lucky child. Today, I think I will look for it at the bottom of a beer mug.