Barnett Weekly

He holds her close, kissing her forehead; small delicate kisses such as one would give a flower. The sound of wind in the leaves, a soft rushing not unlike water receding from a sandy shore, accompanies her auburn hair sliding off her pearly shoulders. She turns to the left, eyes closing.

At the sudden sound of rapid gunfire her eyes widen, and she opens her mouth as if to scream. He gently places his hand over her parted lips, and whispers “Shhhh.” She shakes her head, her eyes searching right and left. His grip gets firmer. “Shhhhh!” he whispers again insistently, more like an order than a suggestion.

She blinks, the screen darkens, and suddenly she is standing in a darkly paneled living room, soft amber light seeping through the mica shade of a 1915 Dirk Van Erp lamp. From another room the sound of a radio seeps softly down the darkened hallway. “Dinner’s almost ready,” a voice calls, “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

As she turns towards the bath, a flash of light followed by a soundless concussion throws her against the wall. A wall of flame moves its way in slow motion down the hallway, a billowing golden cloud ringed with flame. As if in a dream she grabs for the door, closing it just as the first tongue of fire penetrates the room. As sound returns, it merges with the shuffle of blowing leaves and the glare of fire fades into gentle greenness and then to black.

“This is what they were looking for,” a man’s voice says in the blackness. “They won’t stop until they find it.” The scene begins to emerge from utter darkness to the glowing light of a LCD monitor. A uniformed hand reaches towards the screen, and touches a glowing dot of red. The camera moves up his arm, across medals and a rectangular name patch at his chest saying “Swanton.” Panning back, we see his face. He holds his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he says.

“I’m confused,” a woman’s voice this time. “They could have had it anytime. It’s not like it was hidden or anything, I mean, it’s right where it always is.” Four stern-looking male faces turn toward her. “What do you mean not hidden?” A burly, short-cropped gray-haired Colonel, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, asks. “Wait, what’s that noise?”

A door bursts open and a thundering automatic weapon begins to spray bullets into the room. A fog of red mist travels across the field of view as one of the men collapses. Bright flashes of light create a strobe effect articulating slow-motion slaughter. The camera moves in tightly on a woman as her eyes widen, tighter and tighter, all the way in so that the screen is finally filled with just inky blackness, the pupil of her eye.

Sounds of roaring surf and laughing children arise together in brightening sunshine. A red and white checkered cloth covers a picnic table piled high with dishes of food – fried chicken, corn on the cob, baked beans, sliced bread. A golden retriever sits quietly upright on the bench, a bandana tied around his neck. Next to it an eight-year old girl is staring into the distance looking confused. A voice asks, “Have some chicken, sweetie?”

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I attended a lecture today. The topic was Jews in the 21st Century, but it covered the 20th century as well. All told, it was not a bad talk, if a bit too long and somewhat repetitive. As it pertained to Israel, I found no basic disagreement with its premise that extremist intolerance on the part of both Israelis and Palestinians provides no road to peace.

However, I was struck by one element of the presentation, namely that the speaker referred to Israeli extremists as ultra-orthodox Jews while Palestinian extremists were referred to as Islamo-fascists. The speaker had gone to some lengths to decry the calling of Israelis “Nazis,” yet did not seem to notice that he was calling Palestinians “Nazis” by designating them as fascist. So, in the midst of attempting to draw a parallel between the intolerance of extremists on both sides of the conflict, he revealed his own prejudice and willingness to engage in stereotypical name-calling.

Name-calling attempts to frame debate linking people with debased behavior or characteristics. The linkage need not call upon facts, statistics, actual observation or documentation. As a pejorative device, name-calling exercises power by tapping into implicit or explicit bigotry, prejudice, small-mindedness and intolerance.

Whether it’s Rush Limbaugh calling women “Femi-Nazis,” whites calling African Americans “Jungle Bunnies,” Arabs being referred to as “Rag Heads” or extremist Palestinians designated “Islamo-Fascists,” the intent is the same: to diminish and objectify others in order to justify one’s own preferences, bigotry, hatred or aggression. In this way, fueled by intemperate and aggressive speech, cycles of conflict are propagated,.

Today’s speaker touched upon the torment inflicted on Europe’s Jews during the Holocaust, none of which would have happened without name-calling. Designating Jews as “vermin, pests and parasites” Adolph Hitler’s Third Reich and his propagandist Joseph Goebbels used language as their tool of choice in mobilizing German society to accept the extermination of millions. Today, language continues to be used as an effective agent of dominance and aggression.

Each of us forms likes and dislikes, some born of the senses and others born of experience; this is completely human. But as we grow older and examine our own views and attitudes, we often discover the roots of our preferences are wholly insubstantial. Upon close inspection we find all our stereotypes about others are wrong. Looking deeper, we can understand that our everyday speech reinforces our discrimination. Only by applying mindfulness can we discover how automatically we objectify others.

Mindful speech requires slowing down, creating a gap between our feelings and our mouths. It can be done, but it takes practice and is a challenge in our speedy culture. A good way to begin is with simple silence, listening to others then just watching our mind. Sometimes when I feel speedy, I count to three before speaking. In many interactions, a smile and a nod of acknowledgement are often sufficient.

All over the world, people inflict terrible pain and suffering on others every day. We let the differences between us become the excuse for terrible behavior. We cannot individually solve the problems of the entire world, but we can be more careful about what we say to and about others. Such mindfulness may not change everything for the better, but as my grandfather used to say, “Couldn’t hurt!”

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The handwriting is not on the wall; it’s on the computer, the cell phone, the tablet, Twitter, Facebook, Linked-In and Skype. Technology is rapidly making the mailman obsolete.

Reflecting on this brings up memories of Al Zooks, the mailman of my suburban youth. As I remember him, Al was a grizzled old guy: unshaven, white-haired, mostly bald, and sporting a semi-toothless grin. He’d drive up and down my street dropping mail into mailboxes, and chatting with most everyone he’d meet along the way. I know this because sometimes he’d pick me up as I walked home from school and let me ride along with him in his mail truck.

“Hey, Larry!” he’d shout, “Y’wanna ride?” Al’s New York accent was as thick as Molasses. I’d hop in and sit on a pile of mail – seatbelts, air-bags and Ralph Nader were many years in the future. “Sow’s the folks?” Al would ask, grinning. His missing teeth fascinated me. “Mom ok?” Al was my mother’s mailman when she was a little girl in nearby New Rochelle many years before. I imagined her sitting on a pile of mail in his truck too. In my youth trusting people you knew just seemed normal.

Around the holidays Al would attach a small plow to the front of his truck, and when we’d had a good snowfall he’d put on chains and plow a path down the driveways so he could hand-deliver the mail without trudging through the snow. He’d ring the bell on a Saturday, and my dad would answer the door. “Hey Norm!” Al would bellow, “Happy Holidays!” My father would invite him in. “Rye, right?” my dad would ask, and he didn’t mean rye bread. Al would nod his head and grin.

We’d all go into the hot kitchen where my mother would be at the stove. “Hi ya, doll!” Al would shout, and mother would give him a big hug. “Howaya?” We’d sit at the kitchen table and my dad would pour Al his shot of Rye. He’d down it with a big “Ahhh,” smack his lips and wink at me. Like our neighbors, my father would hand him an envelope with twenty bucks in it. In this way Al made his rounds, reaffirming old relationships, supplementing his salary and getting progressively more intoxicated. It was glorious.

Nowadays kids can’t ride in mail trucks, drinking and driving don’t mix, tips are not allowed, trust is in short supply, and at my house I never know from day-to-day who delivers my mail because my street has no permanently assigned mailman. The U.S. Post Office wants to eliminate Saturday delivery altogether, and most of the mail we get is junk. Our bills are paid online or by direct withdrawal, and it seems the ratio of meaningful mail to mail-order catalogs tipped in favor of catalogs quite some time ago.

Before technology, mail bound us together as a people and a nation. Though short-lived due to the telegraph, tales of the pony-express remain a romantic expression of the selfless mail-carrier braving danger and the elements to make sure people could hear from their loved ones. The personal, human to human quality of life is rapidly receding into digital networks of ever-more disembodied communication technology. The future of hand delivered mail? “Fuggedaboudit!.”

Thinking of you, Al.

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Last year American men spent over a third of a billion dollars on shaving cream. Until recently, I numbered myself among them. I have nothing against shaving cream per se; however, it does consume a vast amount of environmentally wasteful packaging materials and is supported by a massive amount of multi-media advertising dollars. In this it is not unique.

A well-shaved man, we are told, is more attractive to women. We are not exactly told this with words; rather we witness the well-shaved man in the soft caress of a beautiful woman and come to our own conclusion. That conclusion is that if we are well-shaved, many women will want to have sex with us. We are men, so we believe it.

A more technological sales approach hawks shaving cream as a nearly magical substance that will protect our faces from cuts and scrapes. The same companies that sell shaving cream also sell razors, but they’d just as soon we ignore that. The razors, now up to five blades and counting, are billed as being so excellent that cuts and scrapes don’t happen, which begs the question: why then do we need special shaving cream to protect us? We are men, so we don’t think about it.

I recently watched a commercial for an electric razor billed as far superior to a blade razor. An electric shave so close, they stated, that it rivaled what professionals consider the very closest shave of all: a barber shave with a straight razor. Now a straight razor is very sharp, but it is a single blade. That being the case, why are five blades better? Well, the five blades are disposable and over time account for far more profit than the cost of a straight razor. It’s all about making money, but we are men, so who cares if the whole advertising thing is stupid.

I was using some sort of exotic blue gel that oozed from a pressurized can and magically turned to white lather as I spread it on my face. It smelled manly, whatever that is, and as I shaved with my three-blade razor (only three – I am such a barbarian!) the lather would scrape off to reveal bare skin. As I shaved over the same spot from a different direction, there would be no lather and sometimes I would knick myself. No matter, I am a man; do I not bleed?

Then one day I ran out of shaving gel, and decided to use ordinary soap. I’ve taken lots of little soaps from fine hotels over the years, so I unwrapped a fresh bar and lathered it up between my hands in hot water. I spread the lather on my face and neck; it was sort of thin and slippery, not at all like the magical blue gel packaged product I had been using. I brought the razor to my cheek and drew it downwards to my chin. Lo and behold, it put the shaving gel to shame. Lubrication eased the razor across my face, no matter what direction. A thin, slippery coating of soap seemed to remain even after the razor had passed! It was the best shave I had ever had.

Call me an idiot for 50 years of wasting money. I am, after all, a man.

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The U.S. Supreme Court has decided that the distribution of films or videos depicting actual animal cruelty is a protected form of free speech. The case at issue was prompted in part by a video showing a sexy model wearing pointy high heeled shoes walking on live kittens and stabbing them with her heels.

The court found the video repulsive, but voted 8-1 (Justice Alito dissenting) to allow such videos, saying the law preventing their sale was overly broad. In a free society, their argument goes, it is better to suffer the degradation of repulsive material than to risk limiting it and having to make subjective judgments as to what is acceptable and what is not. This notion of subjective judgment is located in opposition to the objective absolute of what constitutes a right. Absolute right is declared an objective standard, and such right trumps all other legal argument.

What’s lost in the adoption of right as an objective standard is the complexity of nuanced circumstances and the benefit of deep exploration of issues from a moral, societal and interpersonal perspective. Such an exploration is unquestionably difficult and complex, and thus the history of jurisprudence over the past 50 years has shown a swing towards decisions based upon absolute rights, an approach that has relieved the courts of dealing with complexity. Why discuss the effect of degrading material on children, adults or society as a whole when the entire matter can be set aside in favor of determining absolute right? Justice now requires the application of law as an absolute standard leaving judges with little room to adjust sentences or decisions based on subjective considerations. Shakespeare’s famous observation no longer applies; today the quality of mercy is strained.

If anything, this inclination towards the absolute supremacy of rights has grown stronger as the decades have passed. Highly complex issues, such as gun sales and ownership, abortion, and animal cruelty are resolved as a matter of right. Effects on society are no longer a primary issue; decisions revolve around rights.

To what level must degradation fall before we cry foul? On TV’s “Caught on Camera” we are witness to surveillance cameras documenting kitchen staff spitting on plates of food to be served to customers, and far worse. This voyeuristic activity glorifies barbaric behavior for entertainment; big money is to be made by appealing to the very worst in people.

The ancient Roman masses were entertained by grisly death in the coliseum. This “bread and circus” was a distraction from the absolute imposition of the empire and the elimination of the Roman republic. Such appeals to our dark side – anger, fear, lust, hatred, blame and jealousy – is a tried and true tactic employed by those wishing to consolidate wealth and power. Absolute standards of law and fixed sentences meted out to the poor are unevenly applied to the wealthy. Herein is revealed the hypocrisy of justice based on rights alone. Money trumps everything.

Society degrades when decency, kindness, and compassion do not endure. When free speech includes an absolute right to make money by inflicting pain and suffering on the powerless and distributing it through video to others, our aspiration for freedom becomes perverted, declines to its lowest common denominator, and all of us, tortured kitten by tortured kitten, slowly descend to the level of barbarians.

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