Noah channels some liberal guilt

(A note to readers: A black friend of mine told me that it was Ok for me to use the term "Black". I also use some unsavory epithets in recounting anecdotes.)

Bear with my analogy for a moment. I always defended my love of sports as being 'a metaphor for the human experience.' Live athletic competition could distill life lessons about the value of competition, perseverance, and hard luck. And apparently, it can also relate to an over-educated sports fan lessons from the ongoing civil rights struggle.

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=vicksatlanta

How was it, in my 30 years of life, did it take an espn.com article that used the Michael Vick plea bargain to clearly explain the roots of judicial mistrust in the black community?

I was hardly sheltered. I grew up with liberal parents in a mixed race community. I went to private school where we read Native Son, The Color Purple, and How to Kill a Mockingbird. One of my best friends in middle school was black, as was my doctor. I was hardly underexposed to the broader community.

However, I had obviously never picked up on some key pieces of information. Through my 12 years of Catholic school education, no nun, priest, or brother would tell us how the leading civil rights leaders of the 1960's were routinely harrassed and wiretapped by government agencies. Instead, during my senior year in high school, the administration brought in the choir from and all-black inner city school. We sat in the gym, white students from a private school, and watched blacks sing and dance for us. Even at the time I felt there was something wrong with this.

Grade school was equally disheartening. We learned about the African-American civic pioneers of our city. Apparently Garret Morgan invented the traffic light. George Washington Carver invented peanut butter, but he wasn't from Cleveland. We definitely didn't learn how Christians had used specific old testament passages to reconcile racism.

In Kintergarden, we had safety day. We were too young to learn about black history I guess. That day, we took a trip the muncipal fire and police stations. We got to tour the fire house and sit in a police car and turn on the siren. Later the policeman would tell us to wave when we saw a cop, and to stop when the police said stop. "We only want to stop and talk to you." He said. As an impressionable 6-year old, those lessons would stick.

Had I grown up black, I probably wouldn't stop.

The Dallas Innocence project has freed nearly a dozen black inmates who were wrongly convicted and imprisoned in the 1980's to early 90's. The project is revealing a troubling tend of wrongful convictions over a narrow period. It is quickly becoming clear to all, save for the Dallas County Prosecutor's office, that the DA was willing to railroad the most convenient black suspect the police provided. DNA evidence is exonerating suspects with similar stories nationwide.

As the espn.com article pointed out, the trial was not about Vick's alleged offenses. It was about the outpouring of vitriol and death threats against Vick himself. It was about the polarization in public response and subsequent assumption of guilt on racial lines. Once again, black community leaders must have thought, a man is facing a lynch mob without his due process. Lost in the public spectacle was the symbolic picture: that once again in the deep South, in a city where leading black figures had been targeted and systematically undercut, a black man had been judged. The black community wasn't supporting dogfighting; they simply didn't trust the system that had already robbed their civil rights so many times before.

My father in law and I once had a conversation about racism. He is friends with a famous black author who gives speeches around the country about owning your own racism. "Everyone," Terry said, "is a little racist. It doesn't mean that you are necessarilly a bad person. You just have to own your own racism before it owns you."

I didn't really buy it at the time. I did more than just say the right things, I acted on them, for the most part. But I never really took the time for empathy. What got me started? The King of Pop.

Fine, he was likely a child molestor. The jokes existed for years. But he was a black celebrity who was convicted long before by the court of public opinon. Same with OJ. And Vick. Public support for the acquittal (of the previous two) suddenly seemed less like an exercise in justice, but a rare victory. For once, a leading black figure beat a bum rap. I remember the divisions over the OJ verdict. At the time I thought of it only as tribalism and the retreat of people to identify with their own groups. I didn't see it as a referendum, however belated, on a the criminal justice system.

My racism? I need to own up to failing to empathize. I remember driving on M-203 after a trip to the city beach. The same redneck is always there in his lawn chair, expounding on gems, like "niggers don't like the cold, that's why you don't see them here" (I am pretty sure that he is the same guy who has never been south of the Portage Lake lift bridge, is 66, has a paper route, and lives with his parents - seriously). On the ride home, I was explaining to my wife that although he was a bigot in every sense of the word, it was easy to understand how living a sheltered life in the Upper Peninsula could lead someone to those same conclusions.

I wasn't accepting his language or racism by any means. I just stepped inside the world he grew up in, looked around at place (100% white), time (segregation era), and environment (racist backwater), and realized that those factors could turn anyone into a misinformed bigot.

Never had I applied the same courtesy to understanding why blacks I knew were defending OJ, MJ, and Vick.

None of this is particularly earth shattering - walk a mile in another man's shoes kind of stuff. But I don't understand why it would take someone as smart as me so long to realize. Obviously, I am still maturing. Even my Grandma got it right before I did. Nana, may she rest in peace, was the youngest daughter of a bootlegger who grew up in the West Virginie hills. She still used the more colorful term, as in, "Noah, who is that colored friend of yours?" She wasn't that bad, hardly even a low-level racist, until the last year of her stay in the nursing home. The nursing home was run by the Cleveland Catholic Diocese, and had just obtained a rental priest from Nigeria to cover its domestic shortage. He was the first black man my Grandma had ever personally met. For her it was simple: if God and the Church is OK with a black priest, then everyone else needs to be too.

For my Grandma, the conversation had to be in terms of religous enlightenment. For me, it was sports. Her empathy derived from sharing a common faith with her priest, the first black man she knew. Mine involved following the public spectacle surrounding an electrifying former Hokie, whose singular athleticism put Virginia Tech on the map. Both may seem equally weird to the respective nonbelievers, but they framed the debate in a context we were each familiar with.

Never underestimate the healing power of sports.

Big Momma Roca (Part I)

I am fascinated by dichotomy. The division of a concept into two seemingly contradictory groups. Nothing can better describe the first couple days of a novice surfer. Dichotomy is also a perfect context for relating the culture of El Salvador.

On our first day we surfed one of the coolest places in the world. El Zonte is one of many right-handed point breaks off the CA-2 in the Western Coast.

(From the perspective of someone standing on the beach, a wave at a right-handed point break will peel from right to left. Most people are right dominant, they naturally surf left foot forward on their board. This enables someone to watch the wave as it breaks, as well as other surfers.)

We got there early. Sunrise was 5:30 local time. We talked to a couple of locals who advised of the best way for gringos to surf - sunrise and sunset, since they weren't usually good enough to surf mushy waves in the middle of the day.

(At night, land cools off quickly while water remains warm. In the morning cold dense air moves offshore over the ocean, helping to stand up the waves and keep everything clean. By 10am, the southwesterlies would dominate, roughing up the surf. By the same forces, land will cool off quickly at sunset.)

Paddling out here was easy. I knew enough from sea kayaking to pick a lull in the bigger sets, and paddle like hell to get out of the break zone. My board was a 7'6" Al Merrick. Sam picked it out. He said that although it was a little squirrelly and hard to ride, it would be easy for me to get out of the break, since I could both duck dive and turtle it. This board turned out a royal pain in the ass, but made me a better surfer.

(As a wave is about to break over you, there are two ways to keep from getting smoked. If your board is small enough, you duck-dive. As you lie prone on your board, you paddle straight into the break. Before getting smacked by a couple tons of water, you quickly pick up the nose of your board and shift your balance forward, taking a deep breath. Then you push your board down, hug it tight, and let the force of the wave drive you down at 45 degrees. After the wave passes you push yourself off your board, locking your elbows and shifting balance to your feet, and pop out behind the wave. If your board is too large to duck-dive, you need to turtle. Turtling is simple, but hard to do well. Longboards are 8' and longer, and have too much forward mass to duck dive. Instead, the rider will roll off the board and hold it in a kung-foo grip. A good surfer will let themselves get whipped around 360 degrees by the wave, and end up back on top of their board, still paddling. It's simple to explain, but hard to do well.)

We bobbed around outside the break. The sun was just getting up, and a hazy sky was casting a weak pinkish orange glow across the water. Birds were calling from the almond trees on the beach. Behind them, steam rose from a deep ravine, blurring the distinction between backlit mountain and lightening sky. The wind was offshore, and blew a fine mist off the wave as it stacked and steepened. As the wave peeled, the crest would fall forward, slowly. The sound was more like a breeze than a crash. Sitting there on my board it was calm. Tranquil.

This morning I would be introduced to my first sets of waves and dichotomies. A wave is at once both beautiful and terrifying, calm and violent, constant and ever-evolving. A surfboard is both a best friend and worst enemy. And this tranquil scene would quickly turn frantic.

Within ten minutes, the first set rolled in. Sam and Keith caught the 2nd and 3rd waves, respectively. I paddled around, watching to see what wave shape they paddled for and how they positioned themselves. Sets came and went, usually 3-5 waves every 5-10 minutes. Between sets, waves were small and unorganized. After 30 minutes of paddling around and away from waves, I decided that it was time to go for it.

(Waves usually break right around the same point. This is where a surfer will position himself. Occasionally a bigger wave will roll in and start breaking further out - this is known as an outside wave. )

I had drifted East with the others, several hundred yards from where we entered. The drop off was sharper, tide was starting to go out, or the sets had just started getting bigger. Regardless, I was now paddling up or around 6' of water.

(Breaking waves are no mystery. Water depth controls wave shape; waves will pile up when water depth is about 1.5x wave height. Wind, tide, and seafloor shape will all dictate when the wave actually breaks, and to crest begins crashing down. So while a wave will always follow a wave 20 seconds later, small differences in wind, height, or tide will make it react completley differently than its predecessor.)

A new set rolled in. The first wave started closing out, and I aimed for a spot between the crests, rolling up and over the face. The second wave was already taking shape. It looked good. I turned my board to a set of cheers from Sam and Keith, and paddled for it.

(Closing out - when a wave face breaks in two directions. Dangerous, because the two breaks can meet together with you in the middle, resulting in a Noah pancake)

I put myself in too deep. Instead of sliding gracefully down the face, I was suddenly pitching ever further forward down the wave. The wave started breaking over me, and the nose of my board buried itself at the base of the wave. The crest grabbed the tail of the board and pitched me forward, end over end. According to the lingo, I had gone over the falls.

I was surprised by how much damage I didn't do to myself with that first spill. With the first roll, I landed with my heel on the fin, splitting it open. With the second, the nose nailed me in the tricep. If I hadn't been protecting my skull, I'm convinced it would have lodged in my brain. Then after 5 or 6 underwater acrobatics, I was Tombstoning.

(Tombstoning is an ominous maneuver, and for good reason. The weight of the overhead water can force a surfer down, sometimes pinning him to the bottom. He is stuck until the wave passes over. Meanwhile, a buoyant surfboard is carried along, sticking straight out of the wave - like a tombstone. The leash stretches as the body weighs down the board, lipping the edge.)

I was stuck. The wave had forced me down. My tombstone (which a novice might think marked the burial site of a certain Al Merrick) was pulling me forward, keeping me stuck in the same part of the wave. After what seemed like 30-40 seconds (in actuality, no more than 5-10), I hit a sandbar and was flipped forward onto all fours, and pressed to the bottom. In an instant, the weight was off me, I planted a foot, and shot upward into the foam.

"How'd that treat you?" Sam had caught the next wave, and was now sitting on his board without the least expression of concern.

I wanted be tough. I wanted to be funny. But I was also pretty sure that I had peed a little. I could taste saltwater in my upper nasal cavity. I settled for understated truth.

"It didn't turn out like I had hoped.

"Yeah. You put yourself in too deep." With that, Sam turned and paddled back into the surf.

I had been shaken up, and was reconsidering if I should even be out here. But athletes adjust, and I could ponder dichotomy later that evening. There would be more surfing that morning. Besides, I still had my date with Big Momma Roca.

Coming Soon: Big Momma Roca (Part II)

Life on the CA-2

It happened exactly like this:

Noah and Sam are driving to a job site. It is mid-March, sleeting and blowing 40.

Sam: "Dude, you wanna go on a surf trip?"

Noah J: "OK. Sure. Where?"

Sam: "El Salvador."

Noah J: "Sounds expensive."

Sam: "It's dirt cheap."

Noah J: "Isn't it pretty sketchy?"

Sam: "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Noah J: "I don't surf."

Sam: "You'll learn."

Two weeks later we were on our way to the Pacific coast of Central America. As far as our conversation, we were both exactly right.

Look for periodic installments to come. A recap blog if you will.

Up Next: Big Mamma Roca

Our Colors Don't Mix (republished from earlier note)

One reason I wanted to avoid a headline like "Sparty sucks", or "Michigan State Eats Cock" is because crass is not a decent substitute for clever. Clever is a Michigan thing.

Michigan State exists because not everyone who can't get into Michigan wants to live for 5 years in Mt Pleasant or Big Rapids.

My friends who have been cheering for State should remember that they are not Spartans. They are Wolverines. Wolverines do not cheer for Spartans.

Mark Dantonio (State football coach) was actually quite clear on this point. He was quite adamant that no Spartan would root for Michigan to beat OSU last November, even though a Michigan upset would potentially send MSU to the Rose Bowl.

This is also that same coach who decided to ridicule Mike Hart's height after Hart concluded a 4-year, 711 yard career sweep of the Spartans. I know this because I immortalized it on the t-shirt I was wearing tonight while rooting against State.

This is the same school who responded to a season hockey sweep by goonery, and beating the hell out of Steve Kampfer while he lay face down and unconscious on the ice. The State News defended the incident by claiming a Michigan starter shouldn't have been playing in the final minutes of a game with a 2-goal lead.

Many warmy and fuzzy soft news pieces are gushing over the home-court favorite Spartans, and the meaning and identity of this team to the State of Michigan. Bullshit! Is Sparty what we really need to represent the State of Michigan and city of Detroit? Sparty is the goddamn problem!

In a city with a crumbling school system and violent crime, to we really need to idolize an athletic program ripe with early draft defectors (Taylor, Randolph, Brown, Peterson, Cleaves et al.) and trigger-happy holsterless pistoleers (See: Plaxico Burress)?

Should we expect the combination of expansive Detroit urban home abandonment and a student body with a history for arson to result in anything beneficial, win or lose?

While Michigan's auto rival states in the South gloat over Detroit's fall, should we emulate a program that gloats in this year's downturn of the Michigan football program? (http://blog.mlive.com/ganggreen/2008/10/dantonios_moment_of_silence_co.html)

I don't mean to be apocalyptic, and I am not particularly religious. But you reap what you sow, be careful what calf you put on a golden pedestal, etc. etc. Of my friends, Michigan alum aplenty, we should be mindful that Detroit (and the state of Michigan) can still succeed IN SPITE OF the values represented by Michigan State.

So let me remind you of the meaning of rivalry, loyalty, and thoroughness. 1) If I wanted to cheer for Michigan State, I would have applied there.2) I am a Wolverine, and I do not cheer for Spartans. 3) I do not want the Spartans to succeed, in either the name of the State or the Big Ten, because the Spartans lack class and values.

Pandemic Schmandemic (Reposted from an earlier note)

I first learned about the swine flu in the El Salvador International Airport. Easily 50% of the people there were wearing various mask-type implements over their face, from full on cartridge respirators to cheesecloth.

They looked silly.

I saw a security person checking passports without gloves. He probably handles 200 passports an hour. Same with the ticket-takers, cashiers, etc. Meanwhile there was no soap in the bathrooms (this was the 3rd world, after all).

At this point we decided everyone else was retarded, and what didn't kill us only made us stronger.

To date, Swine flu has killed less than 1000 people. In a normal year, flu can kill a half million. The last "Pandemic" in 1968 offed an even mil. The official record I guess, is held by the Spanish flu of 1918-1920, responsible for more than 75 million deaths (though it reasonable to assume that modern medical care could have greatly reduced that number).

To the numbers:
DEATH ANNUAL RATE (#/YR)
Spanish flu 1918 25,000,000
Hong Kong flu 1,000,000
Swine flu (ytd) 1,000
Flu (normal yr) 350,000
Heart disease 17,500,000
Cancer 7,600,000
Violence 1,600,000

The point of course, is that the same flu-panic retards rushing to the ER for the sniffles would probably be better off spending their time in other activities: smoking cessation, walking on a treadmill, putting down the doughnut, and not worrying themselves frantic. Statistically, at least, those activities would be the safe bet. But these are probably the same morons who felt that a N-95 dust mask was their ticket to surviving the apocalypse.

I understand the hubabaloo over a particularly virulent strain of H1N1. It underlies what I see as the most awesome health irony ever. Swine flu initiates a massive immune response in healthy individuals, leading to lymphatic fluid overload in the lungs, then suffocation. This is why it (and the Spanish flu) tend to kill the young and healthy instead of culling the old and sick. Those of us who choose to eat well, exercise, and not get hysterical over media hype on imminent death have healthy immune systems. The idiots on the other hand, whose poor choices can saddle them with any variety of system-weakening ailments, likely get a free pass.

Fuck. It's like I'm being stalked by the smart and sexy virus.

I have never been a fan of chronic disease, or seeing family members and friends succumb to the random incidences of cancer or the bad luck of poor genes. Outside of these personal connections, I always liked to think that disease still functioned with basic Darwinistic purpose, leaving more resources for the rest of us - that a calm and rational portion of the populace making healthy living choices might live to stave off Idiocracy.

But apparently, if you think that wearing a mask on a crowded plane will keep you safe, you might just be OK after all.
_____________________________________________

Though your humble narrator works out daily, he is keeping twinkies and a pack of smokes at the ready, just in case.

Bedeviled Guilt (republished from earlier facebook note)

I've always enjoyed Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal". As an aspiring writer, I can appreciate the difficulty in striking the right note with satire. But it also reminds me that behind every pack of feral street children one or more parents are likely MIA in some fashion.

I hate feral children, mostly because nothing can be done about them. You can't hit a kid, and can't find their parents. Direct action is fruitless, as the little bastards are unparalleled in destructive tenacity, and you only wake up with garbage on your lawn or your car keyed up.

Maybe we could just eat the little shits.

I always thought the name 'BIg Brothers and Big Sisters' was a compromise. Naturally, fewer people would seek help from a more judgmental organization named 'Because you fail as a parent' or 'Let me show you how it's done'. Regardless, the Nantucket chapter seems to do a decent job. There are far fewer punks running around here than in Hancock, Cleveland, or Ann Arbor, or even across the Sound on the Cape.

So why does your heartless narrator suddenly care? Selfish motivations of course.
1) I currently enjoy feral-free living, and would like it to stay that way
2) I am registered for a race, benefitting Nantucket Big Brothers Big Sisters, and
3) I am encouraged to solicit donations for said organization, since the race was unable to land a corporate sponsor this year. I have spent 16 weeks training for it, and am going to be really pissed if it folds.

I just registered at Active.com, and they set me up with a nice donation page. But I think they take a cut of all donations as a service fee, so fuck 'em. I am not thrilled with my involvement on Active.com. Regardless, if anyone feels so inclined, donate directly online to Nantucket BBBS. It won't count toward my total (so long, dreams of purple embroidered fleece vest made from recycled soda bottles), but I don't really care.

http://www.bbbsnantucket.org/events/index.html

I have mentioned the race in passing to a few of you. The full name is the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay, which is misleading, as it has an individual category also. It is like a rhoided-up triathlon that traverses the island, and consists of 6 legs in the following order: a 3 mile road run through town, a 1 mile surfboard paddle across the harbor, a 3.5 mile soft sand run, a 1/2 mile swim back across the harbor, a 19 mile bike, and a 6.5 mile road run back to town. I believe there should be a 7th leg drinking contest where each beer consumed lowers your time by 5 minutes.

I'll spare the training montages, except for a good conclusion - My dog, Sierra, as an analogue for feral children. She was a shelter dog, and can be a real pain when she isn't exercised, which is the fault of her owners. After our training runs though, she is sweet as a peach. Now Sierra is at least as intelligent as some of these street urchins, (definitely more productive) and had a hard beginning to her life too. But with the right handlers, she has become a productive member in human society with a little discipline and exercise. Morale of the story? Leash and walk your bitches.

High Time We Got to the Point (republished from earlier facebook note)

http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/swimming/news/story?id=3901721

Am I alone in defending Michael Phelps?

(See my upcoming youtube clip, featuring Noah screaming "Leave Michael alone! Leave him alone!" while pulling out his hair.)

I don't even really like the guy. He was rude to Mark Spitz, is a poor speaker, and as a Michigan alumnus, I feel he does not represent the University well. But if you happen to be one of the sanctimonious 5% of former college students who did not get high, ever, good for you. Go back to your respective unicorn poster-hanging, quad preaching, or teddy-bear snuggling cliques. The cool kids are talking now.

We are easily forgetting our place and our own juvenile antics. Our past 2 presidents have openly admitted to past drug use. No one saw fit to open old leads in those cold cases. Seriously, does South Carolina, the last bastion of that old rebel flag, not have any more serious problems for police to investigate? Does someone getting high at a frat party 5 years ago really take precedence over the dozen or so odd sexual assaults and robberies bound to occur on campus this weekend?

Our government has missed the point for years on drug policy. Every action has had an unintended consequence. Stricter border enforcement led to more home grown growing and violence. Enhanced detection equipment moved growers indoors, creating more potent weed. Large scale operations became small closet jobs. Pot is more widespread and available now than I ever remember it being in my own adolescence.

Having failed on the supply side of the equation, we turn to controlling demand. Get high and you will lose your friends, grades, scholarship, and financial aid. You'll never be able to accomplish anything. A series off Drug Control Policy adds never failed to impart on me their message of guilt and fear.

With this we come to the real reason for the Michael Phelps backlash. He got high, and accomplished more than any one human being could ever hope to achieve. One leaked photo did more to subvert our government's position than any movie - from Up in Smoke to Pineapple Express - ever could. In their anger and impotence, law enforcement is being overzealous in their desire to punish Phelps for undercutting their last foothold in the war on drugs.

Instead of punishing Phelps, and going through the standard process of publicist-mediated apologies and suspensions, why not try taking a more realistic approach? Have Michael (in his haltingly terrible public speaking manner) talk about how he obviously couldn't accomplish his Olympic feat if he was high all the time. How there is a time and place for relaxing, as well as for focus and dedication.

I can imagine the format now. He could talk about how he would get up at 5 to start his workout, and would burn 2500 calories before the rest of us were up. He would mention the discipline to his diet, and his continued push to improve technique. Eventually he would get to the point and talk about sportsmanship, and win or lose, giving it your all so you can walk away and be happy with your results, and move on to the rest of your life. He could sum up by saying that if you are indeed beaten, you can move on without looking back, celebrate, and relax, and prepare to start over again.

And though I gather Michael lacks the sense of comedic timing of your humble narrator, he could turn to the South Carolina police officer left of the podium and say, "I think it's high time you moved on..."