Watermark

You think you want to be in charge?

Look at these faces:

 

Think again.

 

Been to an Emergency Room lately?

Perhaps, like me, you live in a town, rather than a city or poor rural area, and assume that things are like they used to be at your local emergency hospital. That's what I assumed, if I thought about it at all. Five hours in the emergency room with a friend (she's fine now) has cleared up that misconception.

I shot that sign, above, during our wait. The sign says -- for those who can't see the image --

Thank you for your patience. The Emergency Department is experiencing unusually high patient volumes. This is causing delays.

It certainly is. 

For the entire time, I kept hoping, not only that my friend would be seen soon, but that the man across from us, his hand held up and wrapped in ice, had at least been given something for pain. Something more than ice.

I asked: Why? Why are you seeing so many more patients?

Because, I was told, so many more people are without insurance, and have nowhere else to go.

Do you think health care reform is irrelevant to your life?

If so, you are mistaken.

[By the way, the 911 folks were wonderful. What a great job!

And what do you do? 

Oh, I save lives.]

Inaugural Poem * by Elizabeth Alexander

UPDATE: Here, courtesy of RCH, is the poet's version of the poem, with line breaks: Praise Song for the Day. This version, though, is copywrighted, so I don't feel comfortable posting it here -- even though it seems to me that this poem, of any, should belong to any of us.

So below is the transcript from the New York Times:

* ~ *

Praise Song for the Day

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

* ~ *

This is from the NYT transcript; I don't know whether the poet's own version has more line breaks. It may.

Already I've seen that some find it too prosaic; they wanted something with more grandeur. I quite like it.

What do you think?

Martin Luther King Day

I have always felt ambivalent about this day. I feel the call, of course, to celebrate Dr. King's life; but each year instead, I remember how he died, and grieve.

But not this year. Today I feel celebratory. I feel hopeful. I feel, at last, filled with joy.

Today, I look forward to tomorrow.

Veterans Day

Why do we keep making war veterans?

Is it written in a rule book somewhere?

Is it written in our genes?

Dear President-Elect Obama:

Re: Fireside Chats

Let's have these again. Minus the fireplace. (Maybe a solar-powered atrium. Maybe the Oval Office.)

Forget the weekly radio broadcasts; or, don't forget them, but make them weekly television programs and video podcasts. [I will confess right here that I have never, not once, listened to the President's weekly radio broadcast.] These should be long enough to contain substance; perhaps one half-hour each.

You will be too busy to do one every week -- at least, one worth doing -- but you could do one each month, and have surrogates do the others. They might speak to whatever is timely, in the economy, or foreign policy, or new programs for health care and education.

The point would be to educate and update the citizens on what the government is doing; what the reasoning is for such action; and the anticipated obstacles and goals. The presentations must not be partisan. They must be from the position of governance and information, not persuasion.

Yes, tricky, I know.

But these surrogates should not be experts in talking points; they must be willing and able to present content, context, and transparency. Perhaps they might even answer questions submitted by viewers; if not immediately, then within a few days in writing. Pick, say, the five major 'themes' of the questions, and respond to those, and perhaps the occasional amusing outlier. I'm guessing that both Colin Powell and Michelle Obama would be good at this, but I'm sure you have access to many talented people who could pull this off, as a service to the nation.

But you, as President, should speak to the larger and more fundamental, issues. It has become painfully -- dangerously -- apparent that much of our population is almost completely unfamiliar with our founding documents: The Declaration of Independence; The Constitution; The Bill of Rights. And these, luckily, are your particular area of expertise, as well as where we most, I think, need leadership and clarification.

What binds us together as a people (or should) is not shared religion, or shared ethnicity, or even a shared language. What binds us together is the ideas and ideals expressed in these documents. These great achievements in idealism and pragmatism; structure and flexibility. But when many of us do not know these documents, the binding becomes frayed. We do not stand together; we fall apart; we are easily divided.

What I imagine is a real-time lesson on history, current affairs, and our Constitution. There are no links to our original documents on the CHANGE.GOV site; there should be. Maybe one of the first requests you make of us should be to read them, even before asking us to change our light bulbs or volunteer for service.

I am not suggesting a dry course on early documents. I am suggesting that you present whatever issue is most current, most insistent -- and help us understand how we, as Americans, might go about addressing them -- with reference to what makes us Americans. A sort of sneaky course on what America means, has been, might become.

These presentations should be so good -- like the Edge presentations -- that no school feels compelled to require their use in classrooms. Students and teachers will want to use them. Citizens will want to know what's in them. Young people will send them back and forth on YouTube and Facebook.

The government, and the governors, have drifted far from the people. I believe this can change. I believe that you can be a part of our lives, and we can be a part of yours in more than a philosophical way. You have led me to believe this.

I think that this regular contact might be one way to accomplish it.

In admiration and respect,

Sharon Brogan
Citizen of the United States of America

  

Send your own letter:

My brain needs longer arms ...

... as I try to wrap my mind around this, in some concrete way I can understand.

  

Confetti
Originally uploaded by ADoseofShipBoy

We have a House (a real house), and a House Owner, and a House Buyer. The House Owner and the House Buyer work to find a Real Estate Agent to make a match. The House Buyers think they can afford a little house, but the Realtor finds them a big one s/he says they can afford, and matches them up with a Mortgage Broker. The Broker works up some numbers, and the House Buyers are concerned; the payment promises to increase over the next few years.

Not to worry, says the Broker, says the Realtor -- the value of your house will just go up and up and you can refinance later at a lower rate.

Elsewhere

I actually blogged today, but it's about politics, so I put it on Open Salon: Unpopular Opinions.

If you like to think of me as a mellow, spiritual poet, don't go there.

July 4th

[This poem's lines are too long for the column, so I've posted it as an image. You will find the text, with broken lines, below the cut.]

Bobby Kennedy

Forty years ago I was a student at a business school in Billings, Montana. I wanted to go to college, and my father said he'd help pay the way, but only if I went to business (secretarial) school first: something to fall back on. We had a dress code, I remember; jackets and ties for the men, and skirts, of course, for the women.

June 5, 1968, was an ordinary day. I have no recollection of it at all, until my brother called me late in the evening. My brother, who at seventeen had lied about his age, was with the McCarthy campaign in Los Angeles, and called to tell me to turn on the television. I spent most of the night watching the black-and-white t.v., and talking with my brother on the phone. Because he was there, I knew before it was reported that Bobby Kennedy had died.

It had been just five years since President Kennedy was killed, and only two months since the Martin Luther King assassination. Too many times in my young life I had sat in front of a television grieving the loss of hope. What did my generation learn from these losses?

The next morning I called to see if school would be in session, and it was, so I went. I went partly, I think, to be with other people, other Americans; others who had the same experience I did.

But they didn't have the same experience.

I was three classes into the day before the events of the night before were mentioned, and I'm the one who brought it up. I had always felt that this was another world, a world where I did not belong, but I hadn't realized just how drastically different it was. Here, at a conservative business school in 1968, the assassination of a Kennedy did not even merit mention. It was irrelevant.

I remember that day now as a blur of pain and confusion. The surreal quality had less to do with this -- to me, significant -- death, than the disinterest of the world around me. This was my first hard lesson in the different Americas. This was when I learned that we can live in one country, but different worlds. This is when I understood, in my gut, how it was that people could pretend there was no poverty, no discrimination, no undeserved suffering in our United States.

We still pretend. We still buy the pretense.

And some of us still experience anxiety in our gut when a new charismatic leader emerges, who reminds us that there is poverty, there is discrimination, there is undeserved suffering, and there is hope.