Saturday, August 27, 2022

Friendship Without Borders: Afghan Conversation 40

(NOTE: For the past year, I have been publishing letters or conversations from a young Afghan friend living in Helmand Province. I am protecting his identity for his safety and also the identity of a mutual friend who has been providing him and his family with some financial support.)

Dear David:

For the past year on days when life showed its dark side, with the suffering of my nation and feeling like my future has been stolen, the friendship I have with you and one other American friend I will call M has been like a merciful rain in the desert.

Our friendship has kept my desperate heart warm. 

I have learned a lot from you and M during this year. I have learned how to study and which books in English to read. In the process I have gotten to know some great writers. My English has improved a lot. And writing has become part of my own life.

I have also learned the true meaning of friendship. From the conversations we have had, I have formed a general picture of life in America, what the American people are like, and what American culture consists of. 

Most importantly, I have learned how kind friends can be. In Afghanistan, with our poverty and oppression, sometimes it is difficult for people to be as kind to each other as we should be.

So my friendship with the two of you is the mountain of hope that I rely on. Whenever my heart is heavy, and I want to complain about life here, there is no one to express those feelings to, except for you and M. The words I have heard from both of you have always been kind, heartwarming and encouraging. 

The financial help M. provides is like a jug of water for a thirsty person in the desert dying of thirst. It not only provides food for me and my family but also preserves honor and dignity to our lives. This help is vital to the economic crisis our family is experiencing. 

I do not know the exact definition of friendship in America. But what I am sure of is that your relationship with me is more than a friendship. It is more like a parental love that is unconditional. It has been something that I am deeply grateful for. 

I can't find any words that can express my gratitude for your kindness. What can be said is that if you have not been, I'm not sure if I would have gone through all those hard days alone, depression would have knocked me down, despair would nibble me like leprosy nibbles someone's flesh, hunger would force me and my family to disgrace ourselves by asking for loans, and my brothers and sister could not continue to go to school. 

Thank you!

***

NOTE: I normally do not publish my answers to my friend’s messages. But this time I will.

Thank you for your beautiful tribute to our friendship. Both M and I are very grateful to be your friend. I hope someday we can meet in person. I also hope our communications can serve as an inspiration for others. That is my hope — that Americans will not forget about Afghans.

TODAY’s LINKS:

LYRICS:

“Visions of Joanna”

Bob Dylan

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin' you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it's him or them that's insane
Louise, she's all right, she's just near
She's delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna's not here
The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall
How can I explain?
It's so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn

Inside the museums, infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeez, I can't find my knees"
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him
Sayin', "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"
But like Louise always says
"Ya can't look at much, can ya man?"
As she, herself, prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain

Friday, August 26, 2022

Boyhood Scrapbook

This is an essay from 16 years ago.

After my first marriage broke up, I moved my stuff to a house across town. Everything was jumbled together in boxes, so for a while I couldn't find anything. Then, I moved again a month later, this time into the house where I would spend most of the next year.

Slowly, as I unpacked my boxes, I sorted through old letters and books, some reaching back to my childhood. My son, then about 8, had just become a big baseball fan, rooting for the Giants, playing little league, and collecting baseball cards. I told him about my big collection back in the Fifties, when I was a kid.

He came over to spend the night one Saturday and I dug through my boxes, just to see whether any baseball-related stuff had survived the many moves I'd made since childhood. Out tumbled this old scrapbook, circa 1958, with prime baseball cards of Willy Mays, Jackie Robinson, Mickey Mantle and Ted Williams, among others, glued inside.

This turned out to be pretty much all that was left of my boyhood collections (I once had collections of virtually everything -- stamps, bottle caps, stones, shells, seaglass, driftwood, bullet shells, bones, you name it). One battered scrapbook with boyish scribbles and notes throughout.

For some reason I had carefully retyped the 1958 baseball season stats; an indication of how much I was into baseball at that time.

Baseball and numbers, real and imagined, these were the elements dominating my fantasy life when I was little. Two other things have showed up over the decades — investigative reporting and the opposite sex. Add it all up and --presto! -- you get the general outlines of one boy's life story. 

TODAY’s STORY LINKS:

Thursday, August 25, 2022

One Small Step

 Biden’s plan to forgive $10,000 in college loan debt to those earning under $125,000 is a very good thing on almost every level. I suppose it might contribute to inflation marginally, but that is trivial compared to other government spending measures, such as the bloated military budget.

The negative reaction of some to this move — ‘I had to pay mine off, why don’t they have to too’ — is a sentiment I can’t comprehend. It’s part of the bitterness some old people seem to feel toward younger generations, as if somehow they should have to face the same hurdles we did at their ages.

Actually, we should be fervently hoping they face fewer hurdles than we did! What else have we been working for if not to improve conditions for our descendants?

The sad truth is by most measures they are worse off than we are. Among other burdens, according to the Department of Education, the typical student graduates college with nearly $25,000 of educational expense debt. 

And don’t bring up climate change.

Those now struggling to pay off their college loans face also the worst housing market in history in our best urban areas. Wages are relatively flat in many professions and good jobs still prove quite hard to get for most people.

There is very little job security in ‘work for hire’ states like California. Benefits are generally better than when I was young (then there was no paternal leave for example), but those benefits don’t help pay off the high service cost of their debts.

They need years more of education than we did, including advanced degrees, and then a large dose of good luck to land a high-paying job. And by the time they get one, that educational debt load is a crushing burden for all but the wealthy few.

So Biden’s plan is a good first step. But much more will be needed to even the playing field. 

LIST OF LINKS:

Wednesday, August 24, 2022

Slaughter Inc.

Among the worst aspects of the way our species goes about its daily business on this planet are human rights abuses whenever and wherever they occur anywhere in the world. Even one case is too many but when they reach an industrial scale they become impossible to ignore.

Such is the reality now in Ukraine, where officials estimate at least 25,000 war crimes have already been committed by Russian troops. In a significant piece of reporting in a recent issue of The New Yorker, Masha Gessen documents a few of these stories in a matter-of-fact tone that underscores the wanton brutality of the crimes.

It appears that Ukrainian civilians not engaged in any kind of resistance are being systematically gunned down simply like target practice by Russian troops occupying their country.

Gessen illustrates how the difficulty of prosecuting these types of crimes means very few of these cases will ever result in the conviction of the responsible parties, though there will be at least some measure of justice here and there.

War is brutal. We know that. But the practice of purposely executing civilians seems to be a matter of official policy for Russia. And that is unacceptable.

The global community at large will have to come to grips with this slaughter. A few show trials in the future will not be enough. Somehow we have to make the architect of this particular war pay a high enough price that others will not dare to follow in Putin’s footsteps.

LATEST LINKS:

  • The Prosecution of Russian War Crimes in Ukraine — Twenty-five thousand cases have been identified thus far—what does justice look like for the victims of Russia’s atrocities? (New Yorker)

Tuesday, August 23, 2022

Best Place on Earth

 

(NOTE: I first published essay ten years ago in August 2012.)

This morning, my youngest daughter and I were up by 5:30 to drive down Highway 101 to the outskirts of San Jose. It was a cool and overcast morning, perfect for soccer. 

Club level soccer is a demanding game; only a small portion of the kids who play soccer move on to this level, and in most places, far fewer girls than boys.

It has not been seen as a feminine option, in our culture, although that started changing in the 90s with the success of the U.S. Women's Olympic team.

From my perspective, it is an ultimate testament to femininity in the sense that a woman can be an athlete and use every ounce of her strength and speed and energy with every bit as much of beauty as any male.

What's good for the body is good for the mind and the soul.

In yesterday's games, the girls seemed tentative, holding back. Today they held back nothing. They came out to play and they played well. Though they lost, they contested the ball at every moment of confrontation, which in soccer is a constant stream of moments.

I was proud of my defender (#43 on the far right above) for her spirited play. Today she showed off the kinds of skills that got her to this level, standing strikers up, stripping the ball, running in spurts, and kicking accurate, long hard passes down field to set up scoring chances for her teammates.

She was at center back today, where her brother plays, and she looked a bit like him out there, at least from where I was sitting.

As I get to know a new set of parents along the sidelines, and cheer for new girls even before I learn their names, I again appreciate the value of team sports like this. 

Parents have to make sacrifices -- it's costly, you drive a lot, and you cannot really have any kind of personal agenda for your weekends, but often I think that the very best moments of my life have been there on the sidelines, cheering my kids on, win or lose. 

In these moments, time sometimes seems suspended, as if nothing else in life matters all that much. Watching these beautiful young people work together, play hard, and try to succeed makes me forget about the painful job losses, breakups, financial pressures, IRS audits, sad losses of friends who have passed, and many other depressing matters.

During a good game, when the outcome hangs in the balance, the world seems to slow down and come into a particular type of sharp focus. It's your child fighting for something beyond herself -- her team -- against other children fighting just as hard on behalf of their team.

Someone is going to lose and someone is going to win.

The air has a certain freshness; you can almost smell the ocean even when you are far inland. The sounds of the game -- the kids communicating with one another, the referee's whistle, the ball hitting the turf, the parents cheering them on, blur into a kind of poetry of motion.

The smells of fresh-cut grass, steaming coffee, perspiration, and sunscreen permeate your consciousness from time to time.

Sometimes you forget who you are, where you are, or why you are even there. At these times, you float like a being suspended up and down the line, engaged with the action as if you were connected to it by an invisible thread --an invisible thread of caring.

Of course, you want your kid and her team to win, but some part of you remembers the other parents of the other kids of the other team, and you empathize with them (as long as you are ahead!)

Mostly you at one with your child in this experience.

As I dropped her at her Mom's house after today's contest, my daughter flashed her lovely smile at me and said, "Thanks, Dad, for driving me and always being at my games. Some kids don't have that in their lives."

"You don't have to thank me," I replied, "because there is nowhere else on the planet I would rather be."

LATEST LINKS:

Monday, August 22, 2022

Dream Worlds: Practicing the Future

 One of my grandmothers claimed she was psychic. She claimed she could see other people’s thoughts. She was very convincing in this regard.

So much so that some of my cousins and I wondered whether we were psychic too. We tried to read each other’s minds, with mixed results. Giving each other enough hints, we could sort of read each other’s minds, sometimes.

So the question remained open for me.

***

One of the better pieces I’ve read about the phenomenon of precognitive visions, or dreams about future events was in Psychology Today a few years back.

The article cites research that roughly twice as many women as men report prophetic dreams, which is interesting in itself, and provides many possible explanations for what such dreams may mean and why they occur.

But what really caught my attention was a quote from Carl Jung that such dreams may be “an anticipation in the unconscious of future achievements, something like a preliminary exercise or sketch, or a plan roughed out in advance.”

This makes sense to me from conversations I’ve had with friends about their dreams and my own memory of dreams I have had. Such anticipatory dreams often occur when we are just starting a new job, or preparing to give a major presentation, or on the verge of some other significant event.

Our minds seem to be working out a strategy for us to at least survive that future event, which is clearly causing us some anxiety, and maybe even help us thrive. In the dream, we become hyper-aware of our vulnerabilities — of the possibilities of failure in unanticipated ways.

This type of anxiety about the future is productive on several levels, I suspect, for creative work.

Many writers wake up from dreams with ideas for solving writing dilemmas. If they can shake themselves alert enough to do so, they turn on the light and write the idea down for later use.

Later in the light of day, that idea may seem stupid or foolish or naive, but at other times it indeed turns out to be a flash of brilliance. Either way, it helps inform our future work.

NOTE: This column is a followup to my recent essay “Dreaming the Future.”

LATEST LINKS: