Thoughts on Being Handicapped

Over a decade ago, I shared an office with The Mentor. He was a little older and much wiser and had no problem making his opinions on life and my life in particular be known.

The Mentor was from the Blue state of Michigan while I was from the Red state of Arizona. At the time, he would say things like, “Republicans are the best marketers in the world. What they are selling is the illusion that the common man can actually become rich and therefor, when they do become rich, they will have wished they voted Republican so their taxes would have been lower. But sadly, it’s all just an illusion. The rich get richer and the poor keep on hoping, but nothing changes.”

I would disagree vehemently. We worked. We argued. This went on for three months until we both simultaneously found better jobs and quit. No longer compelled to physically sit next to each other, strangely, we stayed in touch. Months would go by and then one or the other would call out of the blue. I got older. I had children. We argued less and agreed more.

I vividly remember one random debate from that Winter of 2001. The Mentor asked to see a picture of my wife. I showed him.

“You know, you’re very lucky you’re tall. You’re entire perspective on life has been shaped by winning this genetic lottery.”

“Come again?”

“No, seriously you’re roughly three standard deviations above the mean in height. You probably won’t acknowledge this, but people respond to you differently because you of this completely arbitrary physical quality. It says nothing about your intelligence, leadership, or who you are as a person. However, your earning potential is much higher and women find you much more attractive than you really are.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Look at your wife. She is far better looking than you are. The only reason she found you initially attractive is because the primitive part of the female brain is still hard wired to look for a protector.”

“So I’m ugly, but my wife is hot? I think I can live with that.”

At the time, I was willing to laugh it off. It was just another one of The Mentor’s attempts to press my buttons and get a rise out of me. Doors were not magically opened for me because I was above average height. That was ridiculous. Except... The Mentor was right. About everything.

A few months later, after we had both gone our separate ways, I completely tore my ACL, damaged my meniscus, and sprained the MCL in my right knee. I wish there were a more dramatic story as to how I did it, but the facts of the matter was that I was an aging jock who tried to do a wicked crossover on the basketball court. The only person fooled by my maneuver was my own body which complained mightily.

I was faced with the prospect of surgery and several months of intensive physical therapy. I was undaunted and felt like I would bounce back just fine. Years of weight training had built strong quadriceps and this would aid me in my recover, I thought. I was wrong. Dead wrong.

I went into surgery with high hopes and began physical therapy shortly after. One month into my recovery, others who had the same procedure at the same time were walking. I could barely get my right leg to function.

I came to therapy and received hot and cold treatment. My knee was massaged. My leg was stretched. I began basic exercises. At one point, my physical therapist had me lay on a table on my back. He asked my to lift my right leg in the air. The request was as baffling to me at the time as being asked to lift a pencil off the desk using only my mind. I had absolutely no idea how to make my leg move.

I was uncomfortable being dependant on other people. My inability to drive myself, to walk, or perform very basic tasks eroded some of my confidence. Instead of standing at my full height with my shoulders back, I slumped and avoided eye contact. People started to treat me differently. Not that I expected a red carpet rolled out for me, but I had doors literally shut in my face as I tried to hobble through on my crutches. It was a difficult time.

As I was coming to grips with my situation, I was at work when I saw a guy my age, height, and build on crutches. As he passed by my office we nodded at each other as if to say, “Hey big man, I see you are on crutches too.”

As he hopped away, I noticed something. Where I was wearing a brace that went from my ankle to my hip, my new friend was completely missing his right leg from the point below the middle of his thigh. I got hit by a little perspective. Although my rehabilitation was difficult, my set back was temporary. My friend’s was permanent.

The next week, I was at a social work function in downtown Seattle. I had just arrived and managed to get to the second floor and catch up with some co-workers. I was out of breath from walking and clumsily working my way up the stairs.

A few minutes later, my friend arrived. He took one look at the stairs that took my five minutes to complete and proceeded to do one of the most impressive and athletic feats I have ever witnessed. He threw his crutches to the middle landing of the stairs with precision accuracy and then jumped off of one foot (his only foot) and landed three stairs up from his launch point. Without hesitation, he continued to fly, three stairs at a time, to the landing point next to his crutches. In one fell swoop; he reached down grabbed the crutches and threw them again to the top of the stairs. Without a pause to catch his breath, he then continued to fly/jump off of one leg until he was at the top of the stairs.

He grabbed his crutches and approached me.

“That was amazing,” I gushed.

My friend simply shrugged and said, “You get used to it.”

“Well, if I wasn’t tired before, that made me tired just watching it. I had to park half a mile away from here. I was really wishing I had a handicapped spot.”

“My doctor keeps trying to give me one. I think that handicapped spots should really go to people who actually need them.”

In that single moment, I realized that my friend refused to see himself as handicapped. He told me more about himself and his situation. He was diagnosed with cancer at the age of fourteen and had most of his right leg amputated. His leg was gone, but so was his cancer. Instead of mourning the loss of his leg, he celebrated the new found chance at life. He had played sports, gone to college, married, and had children. His attitude was an absolute inspiration to me.

I approached my physical therapy with a different mindset. I forgave my body for not recovering as quickly as I had unreasonably expected it to. I accepted that my rehab experience would be different from everyone else’s. I attacked physical therapy and pushed myself harder. I choked back fear and pain and kept remembering that this moment was temporary and that I would make a full recovery.

My attitude improved, but there were no miracles. Slowly, surely functionality returned to my leg. I wore a smaller brace and eventually decided to give up my crutches.

My first outing without crutches, I went to Target to purchase “Zoolander” on DVD. I went to the cashier to pay when I started to realize I picked the wrong line. The woman in front of me was in an electric scooter, apparently unable to walk. She had a basket full of goods but seemingly no ability to pay for any of them. One by one, she put items back until her credit card was accepted.

Patience has never been my strong suit, but standing there waiting for an uncertain amount of time while still unsure how to spread my weight between my right and left legs was agony. Eventually, I made my purchase and limped towards the car in time to see the woman get out of the electric scooter and walk with seeming ease towards her car. Parked in a handicapped spot.

The woman who used an electric scooter and parked in a handicapped spot without showing any symptoms of being disabled had allowed herself to be victimized. Before I met my friend, it was the path I was starting to head down.

I could not help but be thankful for having met my friend who had never told me to stop seeing myself as handicapped, but showed me by example. By his actions. By his attitude. I was grateful for having met him when I needed someone to show me how to be positive. Without saying it, he let me know my situation was temporary and could have been much worse.

As my attitude towards my condition improved and my health returned, I started to carry myself differently. It was as if I had grown four inches overnight. My posture improved. I made eye contact again. People started treating me differently. The Mentor was right, as always.

A New Found Purpose

They say the food in Melbourne is the best in the world. While this claim is difficult to substantiate, it might very well be true. What makes it so excellent is the way the different cultures and influences have come together bringing the best of their cuisine and leaving behind everything else.

No one ever goes to England and comes back raving about the food, but Australia definitely has a strong British influence. Foods such as fish and chips, sausage roles, or meat pies can be found in abundance here and they are all very good. Of course, one could get fish and chips in the States, but somehow, they are flat out better here.

In Melbourne, there is the largest population of Greeks living outside of Athens and it is readily apparent in the local cuisine. Pitas, humus, Kalmato olives, and roast lamb can be easily found and the food has a strong Mediterranean influence. Walk down any street and it is easy to purchase a kebab, gyro, or stuffed grape leaves. All of it is fantastic.

The large number of Italians brought with them their recipes for pizza and pasta. The pizza here, like most things in Australia, are neither better nor worse than in the States - it is simply different. Although a pizza here may look like a pizza in the States; it is served on a thinner crust, has less sauce, and the ingredients may be radically different. It would not be unusual to have a pizza here that has salami or a hard boiled egg on it. Personally, I don’t go for salami and have held out for peperoni without much luck. However, I have had a pizza served with pumpkin, goat cheese, and rosemary that is the best non-pizza I have ever had. Maybe it’s because I have a pumpkin fetish, but I truly love some of these recipes. Trying to compare them to the pizza I knew back home is like comparing apples to oranges. Both have their own merits and I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to have tried both.

The Japanese, Thais, and Chinese have brought their food with them, but it seems like the immigration process weeded out the mediocre restauranters and only allowed the best ones in. Even a fast Teryaki restaurant in the mall will provide a much better quality of meal than I was used to back home.

Having lived in Redmond for so long, I assumed that I was getting excellent Indian food. I was wrong as the Indian food here is flat out better. The naan is slightly more delicious. The selection of chutneys is broader. The curries are tastier and the Tandoori is zestier.

With all of this excellent food, one would think that I would have nothing to whinge about, but I’m me and I can always find something to whinge about. I am not against drinking, I just don’t do it that often. It’s not because I get drunk and say stupid things that I shouldn’t say. I do. It’s not because when inebriated I do things I shouldn’t. That definitely happens. In fact, one memorable New Year’s Eve, pre-kids, Julie and I found ourselves in Tahiti. We were seated with another couple who had broken up before the trip but decided to go anyway since it was payed for. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyhoo, the tension was thick and the champagne was free, so drink I did. I proceeded to offend the couple - horribly. I urinated off of a bridge. I went streaking. I have no regrets to this day, for these are the kind of things that I do when I’m inebriated.

The reason I don’t drink often is because it leads to horrible decisions about what I eat. When I have had a few cocktails, all of a sudden, it seems like a great idea to eat an entire pizza at 2:00AM. My appetite is insatiable and I will eat anything and everything. Back to my point, I had a fantastic evening with friends and went to my first “footy” in late May. Julie and I started to stumble back to our hotel room when we walked past Mr. Pie Face. I saw a giant piece of cheesecake in the display case and decided that I must have it.

Back in the room, I took a few bites and realized it was easily the single worst piece of cheesecake that I had ever tasted. It was so vile, that I wasn’t willing to eat it drunk which is about the worst insult I could ever give to food. Since then, I have had mediocre cheesecake, but nothing as good as what one could get at the Cheesecake Factory back in the States. I will continue to whinge until I find a place that can consistently beat the average chain restaurant in America.

With all of the great food around me (except cheesecake), I have a new found purpose in my life. Roughly ten years ago, Julie and I were both full time employees at Microsoft in Silicon Valley. We lived in Mountain View and would occasionally make the five mile drive to Cupertino to eat at the Outback Steakhouse. We would look at the Apple campus and feel sorry for the unfortunate people who worked there thinking Apple would go under any day. After a few meals at the Outback, our idea of Australian food was blooming onions, shrimp on the barbie, and Foster’s beer. Although the food there is pretty bad, it brings back good memories and makes me laugh at myself a little for believing it to be even mildly authentic. Knowing what I know now, I love to tease my Aussie mates about the Outback Steakhouse.

One night randomly reading nothing special on my iPad in bed, I decided to look up the Outback. I was shocked to discover that they have an international presence. Even better, there are Outback Steakhouses in Australia! I was disappointed to find that all eight of the restaurants are in New South Wales (Sydney) and none in Victoria. I vow to do everything in my power to lobby the good owners of the chain to bring their presence here in Victoria.

Back in the States, the Outback is a bunch of Americans pretending to be Australians. It makes me wonder if in Australia, it is filled with Australians pretending to be Americans pretending to be Australians. It gets very meta very quickly. Nothing would entertain me more than telling some of my Aussie mates that we should go out to dinner, offering to pick them up, locking the doors, and dragging them to the Outback. Maybe I am homesick if I want the Outback to come here, but maybe if this is my greatest burning desire, then my life is pretty good.

Dating

We sat in the small room as expectant parents for the first time. I tried to make small talk, but we were nervous. This was the day we were going to find out.

“What do you think the baby is?” Julie asked.

“I’m not going to guess. I mean there is a fifty-fifty chance either way and I have no way of knowing.”

“OK, Mr. Logical. I’m telling you, the baby is a girl.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m the mother and the baby is inside of me. Us moms know these kind of things.”

The technician could not have walked in at a better time. She was upbeat and cheerful.

“Are you guys ready?”

“Yes!”

Both Julie and I hate surprises. We knew we had to know the gender of the baby. I was getting annoyed with referring to my offspring as “it”. I would have much rather referred to the baby as he or she.

There were some basic tests to be done before we could get to the moment we were waiting for. We heard the baby’s heart beat. We looked at it. I pretended that I could tell that the image in front of me was actually my child and not some Rorshack test.

“Do you want to know the baby’s gender?” the tech asked.

“Yes!”

“It’s a boy.”

Silence. Julie broke it with, “Are you sure?”

The tech said, “Oh yes, he is sitting criss cross apple sauce and I can see it quite clearly. Definitely a boy.”

My baby was going to be a boy and he was well endowed. I could not have been prouder!

I’m not proud of what I said next, but when the shock and novelty wore off a little, my first words were, “In your face, Julie!”

Then I danced the Cabbage Patch.

“It” became Carson. Carson was born and we loved him. Almost exactly one year later, Julie was pregnant. Again.

We were not in the same room when the news was delivered. Julie had a CVS test done and she received a call from the doctor. When she called me, I knew what it was about.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

She sounded upbeat, I was pretty sure I already knew the result.

“The new baby is a girl!”

Relief, happiness, and contentment flowed through my body. My emotions ranged from the pure - Julie would have the joy of a mother-daughter relationship, it would be easier to see Carson as an individual with his new sibling being of the opposite gender, and I would be able to have a little girl.

My emotions then swung to the not-so-pure as I already started to plan on how to weasel out of a vasectomy. As the news started to settle in, I was suddenly hit with a new thought - at some point my little girl would start dating. I had no idea why this thought terrified me, but it did.

Now, a few years later, I can rationalize my fear a bit. Part of me doesn’t want my little girl to grow up.

I will always remember her as the pretty little girl with the curly hair who would talk to anyone and everyone about anything. She could seemingly talk for five minutes straight in one continuous, run-on sentence. Apparently, she had mastered the art of simultaneously talking AND breathing in at the same time as she never took a break in her stream of conscience monologues. Her voice will always be squeaky and sing-songy to me even when she is all grown up and sounds nothing like that little girl. I am going to miss that little girl even though I am sure she will become an amazing woman.

I will remember the way she emotionally messed with me. One day, she will loudly declare, “No kisses for daddy! I’m a grumbly little bear. Grrrr!” As she throws a stiff arm that would be the rival of an NFL running back. The next day, I sneak a kiss on her face and she looks at me in disgust and pretends to wipe the kiss off. “Daddy’s kisses are too sticky,” she says. But the next day, I go to pick her up and she sees me out of the corner of her eye. She drops everything and does three twirls followed by five quick hops and yells, “Hi, Mr. Daddy!” Her enthusiasm is obvious and she hugs me and smothers me with kisses.

I remember when she was an infant, she slept with a solitary stuffed rabbit. She called it “bubby”, unable to pronounce “bunny” correctly. We were aware that bubby had become a sleep aid and were terrified that if bubby were misplaced or anything ever happened to her, that our little daughter would never sleep again. We bought a spare bubby. Somehow, Zoe found the spare and insisted on sleeping with both bubbies. The new bubby was aptly named “other bubby”. She then got a giant bubby for Christmas. Along the way, she acquired a small, baby bubby. I think I’m going to miss the little girl with the ever growing family of bubbies.

I will miss all the little things that little girls do that make them so delightful. That and teenage boys are disgusting. I should know. I was one of them.

Zoe had never been to daycare before and we were worried about how she would adjust. Zoe, being Zoe, talked to everyone in her class. She knew everyone’s name and told me all about the things she did all day. Before long, she started talking about twin boys named Carson (ironically) and Fletcher. When discussing Carson and Fletcher, she always pronounced their names with an Australian accent.

“Cah-son and Fletch-uh were at school today,” it started innocently enough.

It moved towards, “I love Cah-son and Fletch-uh.”

Then she announced, “I’m going to marry Cah-son and Fletch-uh and have one hundred babies!”

Uh oh. Well, there was still plenty of time and she could change her mind. Julie had the chance to meet Carson and Fletcher’s parents and said they were very nice. She set up a playdate, but it was two weeks away. Zoe couldn’t wait. The first weekend came and she asked, “Are we going to the park to meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh on Sunday?”

“No, honey. That’s next weekend.”

Zoe frowned. The next weekend came and I let her know we would be meeting her friends the next day. Zoe was giddy with anticipation.

The little girl who could not stand to be woken up in the morning came bouncing into our room at 6:30 in the morning, happy as can be.

“Daddy! Wake up! I want to eat brekky!”

I smiled and got out of bed. It didn’t occur to me why she was up so early, but I went downstairs and made her some pancakes.

Immediately upon finishing, she asked, “Can we go the park now and meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh?”

Well, at least that explained it! I told her we would go in a few hours. Finally, we were ready to go and she rode her tricycle over a mile to the park to see her friends. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess all I wanted was to know that Carson and Fletcher liked her as much as she liked them.

With this realization, I knew what I wanted for my adolescent and adult daughter, who would be dating sooner than I would like to admit. I want her to be with someone that loves her and cares for her and I guess that’s all that matters.

I don’t really think that three year olds have the capacity for love. However, Carson and Fletcher sure liked Zoe and were nice to her. I enjoyed watching them play. Their parents were great and we laughed as our Carson and their Carson played together. We began to refer to them as “the Carsons”.

All in all, Zoe’s first date went well, at least for me. She picked boys that liked her and treated her like the princess that she is. I won’t always be there chaperoning her interactions with the worser sex, but I know that she is off to a great start. All I can do is raise her to be confident and to choose wisely, if I can accomplish that, I can sleep soundly as she enters into adulthood.

My Brush with Fame, Executing Hookers, and Everything I Say Is Misunderstood

I don’t mean to talk so much about “the footy” (Australian Rules Football), but I can’t help it. It is a very big part of Victorian culture. In Melbourne, there are multiple teams that play four games per weekend in front of crowds that would sell out any stadium in the United States. It has been a couple of months since this happened and I have told a few people about it, but I think the story merits a retelling...

Before Julie and the kids arrived, I made the decision that we barrack for the Saint Kilda Saints. Yep, that’s our team. Side note, in Oz, you always say “barrack for” and never “root” as “root” is slang for to have intercourse with. After making this very serious and legally binding decision, I decided to get some Saints clothes. I travelled all the way out to Moorabin and went to the official Saint’s store. I purchased Zoe a dress and matching hoodies for Carson and I.

On our first full day in Australia, I decided to get the kids out of the house and let Julie do some unpacking. I’m the kind of dork who is willing to dress my son in a matching outfit and we both headed out in our Saints hoodies. Our first stop was a local coffee shop that has a nice play area. I drank my coffee while the kids played with some new friends.

The parents were rather friendly too and I asked them about the best parks in the local area and general parenting advice. After a few minutes of conversation, a man in his fifties approached me and smiled widely.

“Excuse me,” he said, “do you have an American accent?”

I smiled, I had done my best to blend in with the hoodie, but once I opened my mouth, I gave myself away. “Yes,” I replied.

“Where are you from?”

The smart ass in me wanted to say Perth, but I had officially retired that joke. Maybe the reason I made the joke up in the first place is because I have a hard time answering this very simple question. I was born in a suburb of Philadelphia. I lived there for six weeks, so I hardly consider that home (what the hell were my parents thinking moving with a three year old and an infant?). I moved too many places to count and don’t remember any of them before I was four. My childhood that I do remember was spent in Phoenix, Arizona. As an adult; I wandered to Colorado Springs, Evanston, Los Angeles, Silicon Valley, and Seattle. For whatever reason, I told the man I was from Seattle.

He paused for a moment. “Top left, isn’t it?”

I smiled. I had never thought of it that way, but yes, top left if a fairly accurate description of the geographic location of my supposed home town.

“So, I have to ask, why do you barrack for the Saints?”

I liked this guy and I was enjoying our conversation. I began to really open up. “First of all, we live in Port Melbourne and Saint Kilda is the next town over. I jog there all the time. Then there’s the history. The Saints have the losingest record in the history of the AFL. More recently, they just went to two Grand Finales without winning. In recent years, they look great on paper but can’t seem to find a way to win which is perfect because I need a team that is guaranteed to break my heart.”

The man found my response to be funny and fairly well researched. With all of the pride that a father can have for his adult son, he told me, “I’m Nick Riewalt’s dad!”

Without thinking, I responded simply, “Who?”

My new friend’s smile faded a bit. He had just spent several minutes talking to an American wearing a Saints hoodie, talking about the history of the Saints, and living in the area who didn’t know who his son, the captain of the Saints and their star player, was. Whoops. Even after this faux pas, I enjoyed talking to him. I would also like to make it clear that he was truly a nice guy and I hope to run into him again.

It’s kind of funny to hear people talk about my accent. I had the kids at the zoo and I was trying to get them to leave. Carson grabbed my hand and insisted we see one more exhibit. I had no idea where he was taking me but was trying to herd Zoe in the same direction. We got  there and I read the sign, “North American Otter”. Without thinking, I said, “Oh, they’re otters!”

Two Aussie women overheard me. “It sounds so funny in your accent.”

I laughed. They kept saying “ot - terrrrr” over and over again. It didn’t sound anything like me, but they were very amused. Ot - terrrr. That’s the funny, harmless part of having an accent. Sometimes, it’s not so funny and I am completely misunderstood.

I somehow lucked into having great neighbors. They graciously offered to take me to a finals game of the AFL (they say finals instead of playoffs). I was happy for a reason to go to the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) and watch a game even if it wasn’t my team.

The AFL started here in Melbourne and has slowly branched out to the rest of Australia. My neighbors are from Perth (ironically) and support the West Coast Eagles. Of the 67,000 plus people in attendance, maybe 1,000 of them were cheering for the Eagles. The other 66,000 were cheering on the number one ranked Collingswood (a suburb of Melbourne). My neighbors belong to a club of Eagles supporters and we sat in their section. My neighbor, Greg, knew just about every one of the thousand Eagles fans.

The game started and the Eagles played well in a valiant defeat. After the first quarter, Greg and I wound up heckling the girl sitting in front of us. It was probably my NFL football jersey that gave me away, but she started to give me a list of things to do in Melbourne.

“You need to go to Healesville.”

“I’ve done that.”

“You need to go to Luna Park.”

“I’ve done that.”

“You need to see a kangaroo in the wild.”

“Look, I’ve done everything there is to do in Melbourne except execute a hook turn.”

If this scene were in a movie, all 67,000 people in attendance would have stopped cheering, the players on the field would have stopped playing, the crazy noise surrounding us would have gone to absolute silence. The only thing that would have been heard would be the sound of a record scratching.

I was confused. Greg and the girl looked at me and then at each other appalled.

“You know, when you make a right turn from the left lane?”

“OH! A HOOK (pause) TURN!”

It then dawned on me that they thought I casually suggested that I needed to execute a hooker. It was my turn to be appalled.

“My ten year old neighbor is sitting right next to me! What did you think I was talking about!”

If I could be that misunderstood amongst friends, it made me wonder what else I’ve said that has been radically misinterpreted.

As we were leaving, Greg introduced me to a friend. He saw my Arizona Cardinal’s jersey and told me proudly he was part of the “Steeler’s nation”. I was shocked and a bit surprised. Not that he cared about the NFL, Aussies love sports so much they will watch anything, but that he would choose the Steelers.

“Have you ever been to Pittsburgh?”

“No.”

“Do you ever plan to go to Pittsburgh?”

“No.”

“If you could go anywhere in the United States, would Pittsburgh even rank in your top ten of cities you would want to go to?”

“No.”

“Then why do you give a shit about the Steelers?!”

I got an answer that he liked the colors when he was a kid and  watched them win a Super Bowl in the late seventies. Here, once you pick a team you can never change. I say that’s bullshit.

A week later, the NFL season started. I woke up at 6AM Monday morning and the morning games from Sunday back in the States were already over. A few hours later, I received a text from my mate, Darren, gloating that his beloved Niners had solidly beaten the Seahawks.

For the last several years, Darren and I have bet when our two pathetic teams meet. Since Darren won’t bet money; it has resulted in Darren listening to the musical “Cats”, me listening to the “Best of Billy Ray Cyrus”, and other acts of unspeakable torture. For whatever reason, Darren and I never worked out any sort of bet for this season.

I saw his text and my first thought was, “We never made a bet, so I’m not going to have to listen to Barbara Streisand!”

My next thought was, “Who gives a shit?”

I replied back that I no longer care about the Seahawks, I will never attend a game at Qwest field, and I now consider the Chargers to be my team. There was no immediate reply and I forgot about the whole conversation.

A few hours later, Darren texted saying that I can’t do that and switching teams would result in anarchy. It made me think of the Steelers fan I met at the footy. Why should I care about a team in Seattle when I don’t live there anymore, don’t want to live there anymore, and never particularly liked living there in the first place?

I’m now coming out publicly to say, I officially renounce my fandom of the Seattle Seahawks and henceforth pronounce myself to be a fan of the San Diego Chargers. I have asked a few Australians for their views on this unconventional move. Surprisingly, once I presented my case, most have been supportive. What do the Americans have to say? (Except Darren - he doesn’t count)

Never Forget

Ten years ago, over 3,000 people died in an act of senseless violence. To everyone who lost a father, son, brother, mother, daughter, sister, or friend in this completely avoidable incident; I am sure a void in their life still exists. There are two things that I can’t stop thinking about ten years later. The level of arrogance, stupidity, intolerance, and self-righteousness that led to the act of suicide mixed with mass murder still shocks me. Additionally, as tragic as the event was, the United States over reacted to such a degree that Al-Qaida might very well have won.

Over a decade ago, I admired the members of the B’hai faith greatly. The B’hais believe that all religions contain the fundamental elements of the truth and therefore are equally valid. When I lived in Evanston, Illinois, I used to make it a goal to run from my apartment to the B’hai temple. I had several conversations with members of the faith and always found them to be warm and compassionate people. Now older and more cynical, I have adopted the opposite version of the B’hais. I believe that EVERY religion is fundamentally wrong and all equally invalid. I find it both sad and ironic when “Christians” mock Mormons or Scientologists as if Lord Xenu trapping Thetans in a volcano is any less believable than the concept of a benevolent, all knowing God that came up with the plan of having a son that was really himself impregnated into a virgin, living a “perfect” life, and then being murdered in an excruciatingly torturous way in order to appease, um, himself was a good idea.

Or the idea that god himself came down from heaven and gave the land of Israel to the Jews. It didn’t matter that there were already people living there. The fact that the Jews have only occupied Israel about half the time over the last four thousand years is irrelevant too. The alleged four hundred years of slavery (no archaeological evidence to back this one up), occupation by the Mesopotamians, occupation by the Romans, the Spanish Inquisition, the Pogroms, or the Holocaust are not evidence that the Jews are not indeed god’s chosen people. I could go on and on as I am an equal opportunity offender, but I will stop here.

I was once an evangelical atheist. I am still an atheist, but I am a kinder, gentler atheist. I am comfortable with religion not playing a part in my life. I understand, that for most, religion provides a sense of community, shared beliefs, and structure that may very well enhance their lives. So long as these potential benefits are not used for intolerance towards homosexuals, other religious groups, preventing science, discrimination, and violence; I am fine with whatever anyone wants to believe, but consider this...

Religion at the allegorical level is fine and dandy, but when fundamentalism takes hold, bad things tend to happen. Not only do the band things happen, it’s just plain stupid. I make it no secret that I am a fan of Star Wars. I watched all the movies and discuss them ad nauseum with anyone who will listen. I will go so far as to say that Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith contains a very good moral message. I stop well short of believing that any of it LITERALLY happened.

I understand that while I like Star Wars, there are people who like Harry Potter. There are people who like the Lord of the Rings. I watched some of the movies, but didn’t like them as much as Star Wars. Never have I sought to harm anyone who didn’t like Star Wars. I married a woman who is, at best, indifferent to Star Wars. I have never forced my belief of Star Wars being the superior science fiction movie on anyone.

That is all religion is, it’s the love of a fictional, absurd tale gone way too far. Take from it what you will. Learn from the parts that makes sense. Love your neighbor and all that good stuff. Forget about the proper rules for buying and selling slaves. Forget about the genocides and xenophobia. Don’t take it literally! For I fear Satan as much as I fear Lord Voldermort.

The extremists who willingly killed themselves by flying airplanes into civilian office buildings did so in the name of Harry Potter. Or for Frodo. Those who hate gays do it because that’s what Annakin Skywalker said. It is in irrational, indefensible position. It defies logic. But sadly, common sense is not common.

Following 9/11 people were afraid. I knew people who cancelled flights out of fear. Once fear crept in, explaining the odds of dieing due to a terrorist attack (infinitesimally small) did no good. Rationally, driving to the airport is more dangerous than getting on an airplane.

I could remember a time when my mom used to take us to the airport to pick up my dad and we could make it to his gate in minutes. Today, security lines can be an hour or longer and I hate flying, not out of fear, but out of annoyance. It’s bad enough when I try to get through security but coaching Carson through security is downright awful. He gets scared and is confused and it makes me not want to fly. What’s worse is I don’t think we are any safer as every security measure is backward looking and has stopped no one seeking to do harm.

In addition to the added annoyance and useless show of stupidity that we call “security”, the United States started an unnecessary war with Iraq. There were no WMDs. No ties to Al-Qaida. We, as a country, all fell for it out of a need to do something in the face of tragedy. Now after years of fighting a two front foreign war, expanding entitlement programs, AND cutting taxes has brought the States to a financial crisis. A crisis, in part, enabled by 9/11.

Where do we go from here? I honestly don’t know. I do believe it is time to stop American imperialism. I do believe we need a sensible security policy instead of instilling fear into civilians. That we need to focus on intelligence instead of draconian rules at airports. Most of all, on this anniversary, I am saddened that those who irrationally hate have, at least partially, won.