Life, the Universe, Rob Ford, Miley Cyrus, Ben Affleck, The Senate, CNE and Everything....

So, I haven’t been blogging much over the summer… somewhat busy. 

Riding my bike.  

Sitting in the backyard.  

Doing Nothing.

Writing old J.D. Salinger novels.

But before it’s all over, I realize that a number of things went by without my comment this summer and I really think that I should weigh in while we some of us can still remember what I’m talking about.

1.       The Wolverine.  Wow.  Just wanted to say that.

2.        Ben Affleck as Batman.  It’s a movie… relax.  Also, everybody hated the casting of an unknown Hugh Jackman as Wolverine 13 years ago….  Hugh Jackman as Peter Allen in the Boy from Oz…. Hugh Jackman as Jean Valjean ( well, maybe that one…).   What about Denise Richards as a Rocket Scientist in The World is Not Enough ?     Relax about Ben, he’ll probably be wicked awesome.

3.       Rob Ford getting drunk at Taste of the Danforth.  As he and his brother pointed out, Rob is a private citizen who should be allowed to have a few beers at an event where everybody is having a few beers.  He wasn’t being the “Mayor”, he was just being Rob.     So, why was his staff running around looking for him and getting concerned that he wasn’t where they were supposed to meet?  Doesn’t bringing along City Hall staff change Rob in “The Mayor”??  (soon to be played in a major motion picture by Ben Affleck)

4.       Food Poisoning at the EX.  Wow! Didn’t see that coming.  The CNE has always seemed so clean and sanitary… Surprised that they cancelled the Midway Surgery demonstration.   If I believed in a Coercive Interventionist God, I would suggest that God poisoned 130 people to save the rest of us.   But I don’t… and I’m not.

5.       Blurred Lines – Robin Thicke’s song of the summer!  I think that it’s kinda “rape-y” and the lines are NOT really that blurred.  I’ve managed to get through my whole 51 years without once wondering if I might be raping somebody… and I’m no genius.   It’s like the poster says:  If you want to have sex with somebody, set them free… if they come back, they probably want to, too.  If not… they never did.   (I think that's the wording... I mostly remember the butterfly)

6.       The Senate.  To be clear, neither Mike Duffy nor Pamela Wallin have ever lived at my house – no matter their expenses may say.    As for reform?  Pay should be based on performance.  Days you show up to work, are days you get paid.  Otherwise, forget it.   AND you have to wear a uniform like they do a McDonalds, so that we can see them coming… and they can be reminded that they are in the “Service” industry.

7.       Syria.  There is something wrong with the world with Vladimir Putin sounds like the sanest guy in the room.   I clearly don’t know enough.

8.       Miley Cyrus.  Miley Cyrus.  Oh my….  First, not a fan of the song "We Can't Stop" don’t particularly like Robin Thicke or Blurred lines either. I've never Twerked  (well, okay once, but it was totally in context... at church)  Not crazy about “nude” bikinis – on Miley, anyway..  (Which is good because it would be kinda creepy if I did).  She also sang flat - I mean, really flat.  The kind of flat that is not good.  As for the rest of the performance, I did find something racially off-putting about it all.  I’m not talking about simple cultural appropriation… I mean, I play Jazz and nobody comes up and tells me that I shouldn't because it’s not my culture.  However, when I do play, I don’t dress like Miles Davis and surround myself by exclusively black musicians and slap their asses.  Something seemed very off for me… but I also remember the Police being accused of ruining Reggae by stealing from Jamaican musicians and whitening it up… I remember the bad press around  Paul Simon’s Graceland album… So, I guess that I'm not really sure what to think - I just found it off putting.  But Art is often meant to be off-putting.  And Artists put themselves out there to be criticized, so....   I will note that  I’m not sure what we would be saying if Miley were a 35 year old man (like Sting, Simon, et. al. back in the day).  

But, let’s let her be a 20 year old girl for the moment.   Last week, I was looking through an old High School yearbook (as I like to do every Friday... tearfully).  I was reading my Graduating Year Book and a page fell out.  It was a page that I had cut out of the book back in grade 13, but a page that I didn't want to lose… a page that I didn’t want to share with anyone....   a page that had been signed by a girl.   On my expurgated page this girl of 18 or 19 (almost Miley’s age) wrote the dirtiest, most flirtatious 4 paragraphs of purple prose I have ever read.  It spoke of things beyond both our kens; promised things that would never be delivered… and had it  been published would have outsold “50 Shades of Grey”  (a fair comparison because, let’s be honest, there are only about 4 paragraphs of real writing in the whole book).    With the wisdom that age and experience brings, I recognize that my “friend” was experimenting with her new-found sexuality.  She was discovering herself as a sexual and sexualized being… she was wondering out loud (or in print) about what gave her pleasure and joy; she was discovering the currency of her attentions… she was trying some crazy ideas out on the page.  If it were possible to sit down with her today and read that passage, I imagine that we would both blush, laugh awkwardly and move on…

I would recommend the same thing for Miley’s performance.

I would also note that neither Miley Cyrus or Robin Thicke are individuals – they are corporations.  Lots of people advise and take part in decision making… and I’m pretty sure that MTV didn't say to either of them, “Here’s the stage for 10 minutes… just do what you want”.  There are lots of anonymous faces who were part of the fiasco that dominated Youtube and Twitter for the better part of a week…. Funny, how we don’t heap our scorn upon them.  Oh, and wait for it, Miley and Justin Bieber will soon be releasing a new song about "Twerking"... so, we can look forward to more (this time with Added Bieber!!)

 

That’s enough of that… thanks for letting me get all of that off my chest.  My wife thanks you as well, because she will no longer have to listen me pontificate and drone on about these subjects as we shop for groceries. 

  ( btw, great name for a law firm:  

Pontificate and Drone, Attorneys at Law)

Two Wheels and a View

So, I bought a bike.

First time in 35 years that I have purchased a bicycle for myself.

Thirty months ago, my Doctor told me that I was a very healthy fat man, but would not be able to be both forever, and would have to choose which to be.  I lost 35 lbs (and raised $18,000 for the church).  However in the ensuing  two years,  I've managed to repossess almost 25 of those pounds.  Until I get a knee replacement, I find that walking much more than a mile or two can be quite painful, so I can’t go for long walks (which I think has aided in the reappearance of lost poundage… well, that and wine, nachos, chocolate.. mayo, béarnaise, bread, frites, red meat… HBO and my Kobo).

I decided that I would get a bike and ride around my neighbourhood and beyond as a simple activity for my physical and mental health.  I went to my local bicycle emporium to consider the purchase.  I had my parameters set: I want two wheels… cheap.   I don’t want to race, go off road, do tricks or end up the punch line on some YouTube video. (I might consider streamers on my handlebars).  I met the owner of the shop and explained my hopes and desires:  I want to sit upright and see the world, I want my non-existent posterior to be comfortable, I want my legs to touch the ground efficiently with minimal risk to any prized and cherished anatomy and I want to spend no more than $400.  "Not a problem" intoned the cycle merchant, as he pointed out a variety of wheeled wonders. 

I perused the selection produced by said filters:  I did see a bike with a tractor seat that looked like it might be comfortable – but it was on a tricycle.  No trikes!   

I did see several women’s bikes without centre bars  - but I recall the humiliation of getting beaten up at Bayview Jr. High and having to retreat from the school yard walking my mother’s bike.  Hard for a 15 year old boy to find dignity on a powder-blue girl's bike, after he’s been bested  by a 14 year old.… that 15 year old boy still lives with me.  No girl’s bikes!   

And then, I found it.  A very masculine grey… with a seat appropriate to my posterior… upright… many gears… and they threw in a water bottle (which I will assume could also handle sauvignon blanc):  $395.

The owner did try to talk me into spending an extra $100 for a bicycle with front shocks and faster flip-gears.  I declined, desiring to keep to my modest price point.   He noted that a lot of guys my age appreciate the front shocks, if not the fast rapid gear shifting.  I invited him to step outside so that I might thrash him with a Tilley Hat.  He wisely backed off…  (I may never wear a Tilley Hat, but I keep one on hand just in case I have to get tough).     

So, I bought the bike, threw into the back of my convertible and drove home. 

Last night, I went for my first ride.  I attached my little Ipod speaker unit, so that I can ride and enjoy the cutting edge technology that mimics perfectly the experience of listening to a transistor radio.  I simply don’t think that wearing headphones while riding is safe… and besides, I think that people need to be reminded how awesome a band is Three Dog Night – if not for my riding by, they might never know.   Off I went and the wonders were abundant!!!  I discovered why one might like front shocks!   I saw my neighbourhood again, smiled at people walking dogs, said “Hello” to perfect strangers (well, they may have been flawed, but I like to give them the benefit of the doubt), smelled cooking inspired by at least 3 continents, heard laughter and got lost only once.  I stopped to watch ten year old boys play soccer, witnessed on kid miss the ball and kick his opponent in the groin – and then have his simple “Sorry” be an adequate apology as the game went on… I met a kid who looked just like me named Mohammed (well, he didn't have beard… but he did look like clear proof that Vikings had their way with Irish women)…So many wonders:  Things that I have been missing in my world of newspapers and shootings; Egyptian unrest and global violence.

I arrived home feeling my body and spirit refreshed.  So far, the bike has been a great investment.

I still face one challenge.   The helmet.   

I don’t have one.  

I don’t want one.  

I can’t wear my fedora  with a helmet. 

If I forgo the jaunty chapeau, a helmet will muss my hair. 

I’m not going to get into accidents – it’s simply not part of my plan.  

Should I tumble, I am counting on my cat life reflexes honed over years of Judo and Aikido to protect me.   Bruce Lee didn’t wear a helmet. 

I awoke this morning aware of  seven things.

1.  Shocks would probably have made it easier on my arms and shoulders. 

2.  I really shouldn’t wear a fedora when I go riding.  And I won’t.  (probably)

3.  My hair is pretty much muss proof.

4.  Accidents happen – usually without warning. (I watch shark week... and our government)

5.  I’m not Bruce Lee

6.  If I was Bruce, then I would already be dead… as a result of a brain injury. (awkward irony)

7.  I am a trend setter.

It’s the final point that gets me….  I need to get a helmet for the kids.  When those kids see me riding down the street and are awestruck, I owe it to them to set a good example.  When these young impressionable tykes make that life shaping decision to emulate that old guy sitting up so high on his bike… with a fedora on top… I want them to recognize the helmet beneath the fedora, so that when then begin to emulate me, they will do so in complete safety… it’s the least that I can do for our future… keep the kids safe.

Yes, I am selfless... And I'm all about the kids. 
(cue Whitney Houston singing
             "Greatest Love of All")

So, with that, 
  I’m off to meet a friend for coffee 
   and buy a helmet.
(I don’t intend to wear the helmet for coffee – although there is some pretty strong and dangerous coffee out there.)

How Girls' Softball just might make the world a better place!

So I went to see my nine year old niece play softball.

It was the perfect day for softball: Bright sun, cool breeze and I had a great time.   I don’t recall the exact score (although I do know that the 5 run mercy rule was invoked at least once) and I’m not sure who was named player of the game (isn’t always the pitcher?) – but I do know that what I witnessed should be required viewing for all people… everywhere…

Seriously, if we could all just live our lives a little more like these girls played softball, it would be a better world.  Allow me to suggest 6 fixes for our everyday life that have come right out of my experience of Mite Girls’ Softball.

1. There should be cheering for everything.   

      That was something that I never experienced in my years umpiring or coaching my sons in ball – cheers from the bench.  Cheers about Sally this and Sally that… R B oi, oi, oi…  another about ripped underwear…  so many cheers – and many with choreography.  I thought I was in an episode of GLEE.  When a player went up to bat, there was cheer; when she got a hit: A cheer!  When she struck out, threw her bat, got hit by a ball… caught a ball, lost a ball in the sun, took a drink from a water bottle:  Cheer, Cheer, Cheer, Cheer, Cheer, Cheer and spit.    It was awesome.   Wouldn’t it be great if people cheered when you got to work, when you submitted report, went for coffee, brought back the wrong coffee for a co-worker, forgot your PIN number, bought new shoes or got a smile out of the new girl at work?   Somehow, I just think that life would be better.  And, even though less would get done in a work day, we’d all feel better about what we did accomplish… or messed up, as the case may be.

      2. We should swing at everything.  

      Whenever that ball comes anywhere near you, take that bat off your shoulder and give her a go!  Why not?  Swing confidently across the plate; drop the bat low and scoop at the ball like you’re chipping out of sand trap, wave it around like you’re after a piñata… just give it a shot.  If you don’t take a swing, you’ll never hit the ball!   I saw one girl foul off 10 pitches in a row – almost none of them strikes, but she wasn’t going to let anyone tell her where her strike zone was!!   I, too, am tired of being told where the strike zone is and when I can and when I can’t swing.  If I want to try out for synchronized swimming, I’m going to try… if I want to wear a feather in my hat, who’s to stop me?  I bet that I’ll great in a sarong!  It’s time for the lot of us to stop playing it safe and start swinging for the fences, because nothing is going to happen if we just stand and watch the balls go by.

      3. Never bunt.  

      Seriously, it’s undignified to put your bat in the way of the ball… swing or let it by.  Enough of the passive aggressive way of living.  “I think I’ll wait until she says she loves me… “ Hell, NO!  Ask her out, propose… do something!  No more bunting.   “I don’t like what’s going on at city hall… I think I’ll bunt and wait for the next election to make a difference…”   NO! Write a letter, place a call, make a visit, paint a sign…  no more bunting, life is too short and too important to play “small ball”.

      4. When you see someone mess up, just call out “Way to mix ‘em up!”.  

      I admired that at the game.  The pitcher would throw a couple of very nice strikes and then the next pitch would shoot off in some direction never imagine by Pythagoras at an altitude never dreamed of by Sir Edmund Hillary… and the coach or a parent would always cry you “Way to mix ‘em up!!”.   The next time that I fail to come to a complete stop at a stop sign and the police pull me over, I’m really hoping that the Officer will tap on my window and say, “Hey, way to mix ‘em up!”.  The next sermon that tanks, instead of an “Amen”, I’m looking forward to a full on congregational “Way to mix ‘em up, Norm!”   Wouldn't that make your day??

      5. There would be no stealing in the world, if there was more gift giving.  

      I noticed that every time one of the girls got on base – with a hit, a walk or simply by accidently walking to the wrong dugout – they nearly always made it home; often without another hit.  As soon as the ball was in play, they would run to second… third…and home.  Now, you might call it stealing, but I would disagree.  It really was more of a gift… nobody really made too much of an effort to throw anybody out, usually the play was to get the ball back to the pitcher so that the runner would have to stop advancing.  So, as you see, it wasn’t really stealing…  it was receiving a gift.  I’m pretty sure that’s what our Federal Government was trying to do with Mike Duffy: fighting crime by the giving of gifts.  If only we’d been able to see it…. If only Mike Duffy had been an actual 9 year old girl… but I digress.  Give people stuff and they won’t have to steal – seems foolproof to me.

  6.  And finally, everybody should get to wear those cool athletic shorts that stick out underneath your playing shorts…

                ‘cause let’s face it: They just look so cool.

So, now you have my six fixes for a better world.

I feel that I’ve done my part.  It’s now up to you.

Good luck…  and “Hey, way to mix ‘em up!!!”

Not again... please, never again.

So, Norm – nothing to say about Sammy Yatim?

Lots to say about Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, but how come no word on the police gunning down a teenager armed only with a 3 inch blade knife?

That’s one of the emails that I’ve received in the past day or so.

Allow me to answer and the other similar notes…

I haven’t responded thus far because:

1.      This just happened; it’s not the conclusion of lengthy trial in which evidence has been presented and examined.

2.      I am still in shock… painful, heart-numbing shock… and I don’t know what to say.

18 year olds are not supposed to die.

Not like that… really, not at all.

Like many people, I have watched the video of the shooting and I think that I know the following:

Sammy Yatim was on a streetcar armed with a knife about the size of kitchen paring knife.

(I note that knives can be sharp and dangerous at any length.)

There were several police officers on the scene.

Sammy was uncooperative.

Several shots were fired.

Sammy appears to have been tasered after being shot.

He died as a result of his wounds.

He was 18 years old

That’s all that I think I know.

I find it hard to imagine how an investigation will add insight to what I have witnessed…  but maybe there is evidence yet to be revealed that will need to be considered as we try to find justice.  Regardless of what we find, I am hoping that we don’t make a scapegoat out of one or more police officers.  

Why not??  They shot him even though they were in no imminent danger; an officer tasered him after he had been shot!!

I know… and, as I said above, I can’t imagine any mitigating factors that would make such actions excusable.  However, I don’t want to be able to pin this on a bad guy or a couple of bad guys, file it and walk away.

It’s too tragic and too important an event to treat simply and solve by blaming somebody.

When we blame somebody, we allow ourselves off the hook.  We can talk about a couple of bad police officers instead of looking at how we encounter and confront anti-social behaviour.  We can talk about angry youth instead of talking about mental health.  We can campaign for more cops; less cops… and not wonder about spending more money on mental health initiatives and support for people battling depression, bipolar disease; we don’t to spend more money on helping Autistic men and women engage fully and safely in society.

I’m not saying that Sammy Yatin is autistic.  I have no idea.

I’m not saying that Sammy was suffering from mental illness – again, I don’t know enough and I’m not a diagnostician… but I’m pretty sure that had our police (and they are ours) been better equipped to handle people presenting with behaviours associated with mental health issues; had we stricter protocols in place for dealing with those outside the “norm” they may have been able to find an alternative to shooting and killing an 18 year old.

I hurt for Sammy’s family. I mourn with them.

I also hurt for my friends who watched that video and thought, “That could have been my child…”  Because I have several friends who fit into that group.

I never met Sammy Yatin, but boy, was he familiar.

I have met several young men and women struggling  with depression and mental health issues; young men who are fine one minute and the next are aggressive, suicidal, belligerent or just plain uncooperative.  I don’t want to see another one shot.

I have friends who are autistic – fine people who bring insight, joy and friendship to my life, but from time to time present behaviours that are hard to understand and frustrating to engage.  I don’t want them to be shot in the midst of a bad time.

I have known young men and women who have been diagnosed with mental health issues and seem some of them get better with time, therapy, medication, life style modification… seen some of them did not get “better”, but still found a way to function in society and find joy in their lives…  and I don’t want them to be shot before they have that chance.

I have seen parents struggle trying to care for children diagnosed with mental disorders; I have seen them struggle alone because nobody wants to talk about or hear about depression and mental health deficits.  (Tell ‘em to cheer up, get out of bed and get a job!  If you were a better parent, you’d push them harder).

Sammy’s age was significant to me because I have also seen parents despair when the government and institutional support runs out as children hit 18 and become adults.

You see, I want to talk about all of these things.  I want to talk about autism, mental health, anti-social genius, creative disconnect and all sorts of issues that describe those who do not fit into our “normal” way of life and I’m worried that if we find a “bad guy”, we’re going to put off having these discussions and more of our children, young adults, neighbours, parents, brothers and sisters are going to die in a hail of mis-directed bullets. 

Morning Coffee with Jesus

 Now, I appreciate that my humour and imagination might be offensive to some... but for me, they are tools to get me to deeper truth.  So, I apologize in advance to any that I might offend...  I stand befuddled by the Zimmerman verdict, not because the law was improperly applied; not because the jury failed to do their duty, but perhaps because the law was obeyed and the jury did its job... and still a 17 year old boy is dead.   

Sitting in my backyard early this morning… enjoying the cool morning before the humidity takes over… rising sun bestowing a sense of calm hope: A whole new day waiting for me to begin… sipping a nice hot cup of green tea and talking to Jesus.

Well, of course I’m talking to Jesus, it would rude to ignore him.

There he is sitting on my faux wicker couch, cup of black coffee in his hand.  I've often wondered if coffee is really the best way for the Son of Man to begin his day… but as he has explained to me, “You want irrefutable proof of the existence of a Loving God?  It’s that first sip of coffee in the morning…  it tastes like angels singing.  Tea is just a bunch of leaves in water”

This morning He’s still pretty shook up over the George Zimmerman, Trayvon Martin verdict. 

You know, for a guy who spent so much time in the first century under oppressive military rule, surrounded by intolerance and racism, he can sure be naive.   

“The jury did its job, Jesus… they listened to the facts, applied the law and recognized that George Zimmerman acted in self-defense”

“Against, what?  A 17 year old boy with some Skittles?”

“No, an aggressive young man, who, apparently, would not back down”

“So, for being 17 and full of assertive energy, a young boy is dead…. I suppose that I’m lucky we didn't have guns or self-defense laws in the first century, none of my Apostles would have lasted long…”

I let that one hang in the air for a while…

“Jesus, you have to understand the necessity for a ‘Stand Your Ground’ law… people’s right to defend property must be supported, or those who bully and take our stuff will win… and if we’re going to have the right to protect your stuff, we have to be allowed to use lethal force, or the bad guys are simply going to call our bluff.”

Jesus looked at me with those big brown eyes  (they are sooo big) and told me about the first time he met Paul, James and John; how he invited them to leave their nets and their stuff behind to follow him… and they did. Matthew left his job... Andrew left his teacher... everybody who followed Jesus left all their stuff behind.

 “Yeah,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable,  “but they didn’t have great stuff like I have… I’ve got a convertible and have you seen my new Blackberry?  I mean, it fits right in my pocket and it’s not going to slow me down if I’m following you… and think of the great pictures I could take for FaceBook and Pinterest”

“Well,” Jesus said, “it is a nice phone, although I prefer a real keyboard… but if you want to follow me,  you need to let go of your attachment to goods and property.”  He noticed my jaw drop, “Seriously, give it all up and follow me.  The added bonus is that if you follow me, you  won’t need a ‘Stand Your Ground’ law, will you?” (Mark 10:17ff) 

“Well, sure… but still people can be pretty mean.  Surely we need some kind of law to protect us from muggers and those who would take the shirt off our back… is it so much that I want to keep my shirt on?  I burn so easily in the sun”

Jesus reached over to hold my hand… slipped a little bottle of sunscreen into it and said, “From anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again…”  (Luke 6:29.30)

“Come on, that’s crazy!  It’s my shirt!!  It’s my colour!! I worked hard for it!!!”

Jesus gave me the look that parents give a three year old that just doesn't seem to grasp the idea of nap time… and then he asked  me “Why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?”   (Matthew 6:28ff)

I could feel my face burning… “I think that ‘You of little faith’ is a bit harsh.  I mean, I’m here talking to you, obviously, I believe in you..”

Again with that patient smile, “I didn't say ‘you of little belief’ – I know that you believe in me, but I’m not sure about your faith.  Faith is about living as if you believe in me… faith should change the way that you live… perhaps not worrying about a shirt that brings out the colour of your eyes, or believing that property is more important than human life, or having hope even when everything seems to be falling apart…”

“Sure, I get it… but if someone is threatening me… if they even lay hands on  me…”

Jesus cuts me off… “If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also” ( Luke 6:29a)

Silence.

I had nothing to say…

Silence.

Probably the kind of silence that Pilate heard.

Finally, I ventured… “It sure would be easier to do this if you were around.  If you could remind us”

“What do you talk about in church?” Jesus asked.

Not wanting to brag about our latest fundraiser, I decided to retreat into the silence.

My tea was cold.

Jesus took my hand and  looked me in the eyes… not in judgment, not in scorn, but with a deep understanding and love and He said, “Norm, I know that you try.  But do remember when I said that no one can serve two masters? You will either hate one and love the other or be devoted  to one and despise the other?  Well, here it is… you cannot love property over life, or you will find yourself shooting people over a car… you cannot love your “rights” over your desire for service and justice, or you will soon be taking care only of yourself…. you cannot pursue power over love or you will find yourself killing all those things that challenge you… remember Herod?  AND you cannot follow me and shoot me at the same time…”

“But, nobody shot you!  Not this time… it was in Florida…”

“…for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me,  I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me…. I came into your neighbourhood and you shot me….   just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. …” (Matthew 25)

“But, Jesus… it’s the law.... it's fair… aren't you listening?”

“Norm…I'm Jesus... aren't you listening?”

He left shortly after that... 

Trayvon Martin: Us People have to do better.

So what do I do, now?

George Zimmerman has been acquitted.

A man who, unprovoked, followed a young black man in a hoodie… just followed him because he didn't feel that he “belonged”.

A man who ignored the police direction to stay in his car.

A man who referred to this young man, Trayvon Martin, as “they”…("They always get away")

A man who used a gun to shoot and kill a young man who was armed with no more than a bag of Skittles.

A man who’s description of events seemed to change with successive interviews.

A man who I feel strongly should have been convicted of murder, or at the very least manslaughter.

He’s gone home to his family.  (They always get away)

What am I supposed to do with that?

How do I respond to the rotting sickness that I feel deep inside?
How do I channel that anger that boils up?

How do I handle the tears that just want to flow and flow from my eyes?

Is it possible that the jury heard and saw things that I don’t appreciate and that I would have come up with the same verdict had I been part of the trial?  Yes, I suppose that it is.

Is it possible that the jury’s verdict was just another example of pervasive systemic racism in Florida?  Yes, I suppose that it is.

Is it possible that this systemic racism isn't limited to the state of Florida or even the U.S.? 

Yes, I damn well know that it is...

So, what do I do with this anger that I feel?

How do I express my deep, deep, bitter grief over the loss of a young life and this corrosion, erosion, and implosion of humanity?

I pray.

I pray to God for Trayvon and his family.

I pray to God for every young black man who goes for a walk outside of his neighbourhood.

I pray to God in shame and remorse for what we have done with God’s glorious creation: Humanity - our small mindedness, our tribalism and our trading our ability to love for on a promise to keep "them" out of our neighbourhoods.

And then, I make damn sure that I never refer to anyone as "They" or “Them”.

Not Young Black Men

Not Hispanic Women.

Not Asians.

Not Old People.

Not Kids.

Not Muslims.

Not Jews.

Not Buddhists.

No Atheists. 

Not Lesbians, Gays, Bisexual, Transgendered, Transsexual, Queer or Two-Spirited people.

Not Teachers.

Not Workers.

Not Liberals.

Not Conservatives.

Not Dreamers.

Not Idiots.

Not Drug Addicts.

Not Victims.

Not Cops.

Not Criminals.

Not Feminists.

Not Progressives.

Not People with Aids.

Not People Who's ideas piss me off.

Not ... Not... Not....  

No more “THEM”….   I need to talk about “US”.  I need my words and my actions to reflect an attitude and inspire a world where we are, together, brothers and sisters… a time and place where we are one… when this "Kingdom of God" that Jesus talks about really is at hand... where we take seriously, Jesus' example of reaching out and connecting with the margins, the untouchables, the "NOT the Sames".... where my first reaction to seeing a stranger in my neighbourhood is to offer him shelter in the rain, the help that needs, and a safe way to his destination... 

    because that’s how “Us” people treat one another.

I know that it won't be easy... I've got a few people that I like to keep out... that's why I need to pray, because I can't do it alone.   But I will pray... I will try.

God, forgive us… and help us change. 

Out here on the FRINGE

My favourite time of the year: Toronto Fringe Festival.   

148 shows in 35 different locations around Toronto… some great, some not… all worth your time.

And one might ask why I feel this way?

Is it my love of theatre?  

Yes.

Is it my desire that we should all support creativity and give the Arts a place to flourish?  

Yes.

Is it the excitement of discovering the next “Da Kink in My Hair” before anybody else sees it; the rare opportunity to see existential clowning outside of a Beckett play; Shakespeare in a pub, or the chance to drink apricot wheat beer while waiting to queue up for a Scottish Transvestite revelation of God?   

Yes. 

Yes. 

Yes. 

Aye!

But it’s more than that… I love the Fringe Festival and recommend it to All and Sundry (if you see Sundry, please mention it to her) because it provides us all with the opportunity to be offended.  In many years of Fringing I have been offended several times – I won’t mention them here, because may offense may be your orothodoxy, but rest assured I have heard and seen things that made me cringe, made me angry, made me declare “That was utter crap!” while sipping a glass of wine after the performance… and I revel in that. 

I need to be offended.

Just for practice.

None of us can truly live in the world without being offended from time to time, but the problem is that we often appear to aspire to such a world:  A world in which our teams never lose, our party wins every election, our songs are on the radio, all thermostats are set the same as ours, our ideas are applauded and never challenged; our place in the universe is comfy and secure.  We create gated communities in our minds and allow in ONLY the ideas that look like our usual ideas, that sound like our usual songs, that feel like our favourite old shirt and make us feel safe and secure.  But every now and then, an idea in a Hoody slips past the gate and we shoot it because it doesn't belong; we jump all over it because it doesn't look or feel right; it doesn't fit in. 

Before that happens (again), we need to go out and be offended from time to time, just so that we can learn to deal with offensive ideas and concepts without extremism.  We need to hear these offensive ideas and consider them, wonder about them – we don’t have to agree with them, but we do need to know how to engage them without creating a dramatic US/THEM dialectic; an “If you’re not for me, you’re against me” mentality.  We need to hear language that is not our own and points of view that we have never considered.

Things like the Fringe Festival provide that.  Besides great stories, laughter, music and dance, these performances takes us on adventures.  We are not in control of the map.  There is an unspoken trust, as we allow writers, directors and actors to take us we know not where… And unlike TV, we can’t turn it off if we don’t like the plot; we can’t put the book down if the language or ideas push our buttons.  We could walk out, but we don't , because  at the Fringe you can’t get back in…. and then we'll never know if it got better.  For 55 to 85 minutes, we hand over control to another person or group of people and so we often take a path that we would never have taken on our own and end up in places that we never imagined existed.   That’s the joy and importance of the Fringe.  In an age where I program all the music that I listen to you and download only the media that belongs in my gated mental community, it's not often that I relinquish control to anybody.

Please understand, I enjoyed the Wizard of Oz, I agree with the over-arching theme and I’m very glad that "There is no place like home"   But I think that it’s also a good idea from time to time for someone to come into my home and rearrange the furniture – throw out that crappy couch and install a sex swing.  Just to shake things up a bit…  That’s what the Fringe does for me.

 (Well, not the sex swing… I tried installing one, but I just couldn't see the TV from it….)

 

In short: Go to the Fringe – it’ll blow your mind.  And that’s a good thing.