ALS Walk4Life

Hello Friends:

In 2007, not too long after the 4th of July, my Dad passed away.  My Dad had lived with a rapidly declining quality of life as he succumbed to ALS, a neuro-muscular disease that degenerates muscle while leaving the mind intact.  That year, and every year since, my family has tried to raise some money for the Les Turner Foundation, which researches cures and provides assistance to for those suffering from ALS.

There are a lot of causes out there to which any one person could donate, and I am sure everyone is inundated with pleas for donations.  I am sorry for adding on to that.

But, I can, with confidence, say that the Les Turner Foundation has done a lot of good with the money raised during this fundraiser and the others they operate.  More than just assisting the families and sufferers, the Les Turner Foundation has recently funded research which made massive strides in understanding the disease and moving towards researching a cure.  Researchers at Northwestern University just last year had a massive breakthrough, finding a common cause in all ALS cases.  The donations made to my team and others had a direct impact on Les Turner's ability to fund this research.

A lot has happened in my life and the lives of my family since my Dad passed away:
- I graduated from SIU with a MA in English Lit and I am nearly finished with my PhD from Aberystwyth.
- My sister Brianne got married to a great guy and landed a prestigious job as a public defense attorney for the state of Wisconsin.
- My younger brother Kiernan published two books and is working on a third.
- My older brother Kevin won a massive grant for his research at Notre Dame, as well as having a hand in the Higgs boson research, which the science community is really excited about.
- My sister Beth had her third child, and her husband was promoted to an executive level position with AMC (the movie theater company).
- My Mom has moved into a gorgeous three bedroom house.
There are a lot of major events that are going to happen soon, between my graduation from Aberystwyth and my wedding next summer, which I would really like to share with my Dad.

The reason why I participate in this walk is so that other people won't have to go through their lives without Dads, Moms, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, or friends.  I know people have to die, and that had my Dad not died of ALS, he would eventually have left me.

But he didn't need to die from ALS.  And with a donation - even a donation of $10, $5...whatever - the Les Turner Foundation can work towards a cure.

Thanks for reading.

Keegan

To donate, go to my Fundraiser Page.

Suburbs V Chicago: Reflections at a Funeral

I tell a lot of people I'm from Chicago, but this is not quite accurate.  I was raised and currently live in Bolingbrook, IL, a suburb of about 75,000 people (according to the 2010 census and Wikipedia, which makes the village the 17th largest incorporated area in Illinois).  I tell people I am from Chicago for three reasons:
1) It's just easier to tell people I'm from a large city that everyone knows about and can find on a map.
2) I did legitimately live in the city for a while.
3) I'd like to identify myself more with the ethos of the city than the lack of ethos of the suburbs.
The thing about suburbs is that they are almost personality-less places.  There are some connotations about certain suburbs being more affluent (Naperville, Burr Ridge, Wheaton, etc.) and some are more working-class (Romeoville, Joliet, Aurora, etc.), but most suburbs are just names of irregularly shaped and borderless places.  And because most suburbs are squeezed together, it really becomes impossible to tell whether you are in one place or another.  The suburbs just become a stretch of grayness: faceless strip malls with a Starbucks, TGIFridays or Target every few miles; hundreds of cookie cutter residential subdivision with four varieties of houses; and stoplights as far as the eye can see, bleeding into the horizon.  The difference between any two suburbs is really negligible.  I defy anyone to legitimately know the difference between Oak Brook and Oak Brook Terrace.

One of the biggest difference between the suburbs and the city is the lack of tight-knit communities.  Certainly, if I wanted to, I could join up with a community effort in Bolingbrook through a church group or community center, but I don't know my neighbors in any significant way.  In fact, beyond the three houses immediately nearby, I don't know anything about the people that live on my street.

Earlier this week, I went to a funeral for my Dad's brother's wife's brother (my Aunt's brother who married into the Lannon family).  I am in no way related to Mark, but I went because I wanted to pay my respects to my Aunt.  I expected to see the rest of my Dad's family who likewise would know my Aunt and her family, especially after all these years my Aunt and Uncle have been married.  What I did not expect was to see my Mom's cousins.

Four families: the Lannon's, the Schulze's, the Leahy's and the Sullivan's.  As I found out over the course of the wake and the funeral, these four families were quite intertwined.

If I understand it correctly, my Mom (Sullivan) had cousins (Leahy) who lived near my aunt's family (Schulze) in Oak Park.  My Dad's cousins (all Lannon's) moved into the neighborhood.  My Mom, an only child, used to spend a lot of time with her cousins.  My Dad's brother would hang out with his cousins and got to know the Schulze's and the Leahy's.  The four families were (most of the time) friends.  There was a softball team formed (though my Dad, it was said, took it too seriously for most of the Leahy's and Schulze's).  They often ran into each other at the bars around Oak Park and in the city.  My Aunt and Uncle are not the only Schulze-Lannon marriage.  My Mom was friends with my Dad's sister before she knew my Dad.  All through the wake and funeral, my Dad's family would smile and hug my Mom's cousins, trying to cover the ground between when they lost saw each other.  It was a close knit group, and though most everyone had moved away from Oak Park, everyone came out for the funeral.  It became a bit of a reunion and a lot of stories were told about the old days in and around Oak Park (which might as well be the City).

This is probably the biggest difference between the suburbs and the city.  The space and mobility of the suburbs doesn't force interaction from those that live near each other.  I don't know anyone from my neighborhood who married someone that lived near them.  My brother, and two sisters are married; two (one sister and my brother) have spouses with families in or from Wisconsin.  My other sister married a man from around Chicago, but I don't often see his family, and I'm certainly not close to any of them.

When Catherine and I talk about raising a family and living somewhere, I worry about growing up in the faceless suburbs where everyone has to drive to get to somewhere and see some people they know and like.  Despite being surrounded by houses I can see, the ease of mobility has created an extremely isolated suburban existence.  At this funeral, I thought it would be nice if my kids grew up in an environment with such a strong community.  It's not that I haven't had a good childhood out in Bolingbrook.  And my high school (Benet Academy) and my college (Monmouth College, particularly ZBT) provided me with a close knit community in which I could belong.  I just would have liked more of that more often through my life.

Living History

I was raised in Bolingbrook, a suburb of Chicago about 30 miles outside the downtown area (but, because Illinois was built not unlike a table, I can see the skyline from any building taller than two stories) with around 73,000 people in it.  Despite it's seemingly British name (named after Bolingbroke in Lincolnshire, or Old Bolingbroke...there is a New Bolingbroke, also in Lincolnshire), the Village of Bolingbrook is not that old.  Not even by American standards, where buildings from the late 1800s are considered to be relics from an ancient time.  

This is why the Village's decision to demarcate the "historic" center of Bolingbrook seemed a little insignificant.  Nonetheless, those in charge pushed forward, and now, driving around the southeastern part of town, the street signs are brown and there are signs letting people know they have entered "Historic Downtown" Bolingbrook, built in 1960.

No, you read that right.  1960.  52 years old.  I have family members older than Bolingbrook, and I often wonder if I should petition the Village for a sign so that my Mom can be recognized as Historic Barb.

Let's compare this to, say, Shrewsbury, just over the border in England.  Two friends of mine moved to Shrewsbury, shirking their Welsh ties for the comfort and ease of a more populated town, albeit an ancient town (I'm not sure how the British decide what gets to be a city and whats a town, but I was informed that Shrewsbury, despite it's size and history, is still called a town), settled around 800 AD.   

Yes.  That is correct: 800 AD.  1212 years old.  Now THAT deserves a historical mention.  Even before that, though, the Welsh and the English continually fought over the spot, which suggests that people have lived nearby for several years - maybe even decades or centuries - before it was officially settled as a town.

The UK is filled with stuff like this: castles dotting the landscape, houses built before America was settled, towns that have stood for centuries.  Or in the case of Shrewsbury, dozens of centuries.  This is not something that Americans can fully comprehend: there has been a Shrewsbury for over a thousand years.  Although the name has changed (Wikipedia, which we should all believe unquestionably, suggests it was originally called Scrobbesburh), there has been a settlement in or near where contemporary Shrewsbury stands now.  

This is evident in the local architecture.  There is, as with most good border towns, the remains of a castle used to keep the Welsh out of England, and to export their wool around Europe using the River Severn as a trade route.  The castle has been meticulously maintained, which is not always the case with castle ruins (see Aberystwyth), and even the updates and repairs keep with the general look of the castle.  One of the towers, Laura's Tower, still stands, and from the walls surrounding it, it becomes clear why Shrewsbury was such a hotly contested strip of land.  The countryside spreads out wide in all directions, and a watchful eye could see for miles down the river.  

But castles are easy.  London has had it's city center rebuilt, destroyed and paved over every couple centuries.  Few of the original buildings which stood on the banks of the Thames from the Roman era still survive today, not to mention later buildings.  The Tower of London, built by the invading Normans in or around 1066, still stands, but the walls surrounding what is known as The City is practically gone entirely (it is rumored that one pub in The City has used part of the original Roman wall as it's interior walls, but I haven't seen it).  This is partially because the Saxon tribes ransacked the remains of the original Roman settlement too scared to put the buildings to any good use, and partially because of the wars and struggles that have taken place in London (not the least of which was the Blitz in World War II in which the Nazi army bombed several places in London, Coventry and Liverpool to rubble).  For whatever reason, though, the really early history of London only remains in myth and story (or, as in the case of the Globe Theatre, replication).  

Shrewsbury has not had as chaotic a history, despite being an often contested town.  Most of the conflicts occurred before the destructive force of gunpowder and rocketry, so many of the medieval structures still survive.  This is especially true of the Tudor style homes, popular in the late 1480s through the early 1600s.  Any street in the center of Shrewsbury is dotted by several houses with the black beams and the white plaster.  These buildings were built long before lacquering and precision tools were used to build houses, and thus have settled in quite skewed positions.  Often, cross beams were visibly warped or bowed which made the houses look like they were falling in on themselves, or in some nervous cases, into the street.

Standing beside these houses were the red brick buildings popular during the Industrial Revolution (approximately 1750-1850).  With the increase in manufacturing technology came the rise in brick production.  A good chunk of Shrewsbury, including the house in which my friend Stephanie lives, is from around this time.  Red-brick terraced houses seemed to dominate the landscape, particularly away from the city center.  There was, of course, several Georgian and Victorian buildings, but these young buildings were as noticeable as the miles of terraced red-brick houses.  

What was particularly nice about Shrewsbury, and what really gave the city it's historic feel, was how the red-brick and tudor style houses ran through even the new architecture.  Standing atop the wall and looking out over all of residential Shrewsbury, the older houses seamlessly blended into newer residential areas with red bricks and faux timbers on the facades of most of the houses.  

That is not to say that modernity doesn't rear it's sometimes ugly head.  Across the Market Square from the original town hall and several Tudor houses sits an office block that is straight from the 1970s.  Though much more appealing, the very modern Severn Theatre sits across the river from several mixed late Tudor shops.  For the most part, though, the modern buildings add a nice contrast, or stays well-hidden.  

Interestingly, though, Shrewsbury is a town of about 96,000 people.  As I said earlier, Bolingbrook is a town of 73,000.  Bolingbrook, in it's 52 meager years of existence, has grown by about a thousand people a year in order to reach that number, while the much older Shrewsbury has had to add about 75 people a year over the course of it's history to reach their current approximate population.  That is a significant different in population change, and someone who was better with stats might be able to come up with astounding percentages that neatly represents this massive difference.  Probably an impressive number like 8000% difference or some other mathematical impossibility that is paradoxically true in this situation.  Either way, that difference is interesting, probably with implications for the way that Britain grows and America grows (and even further and deeper implications about how this growth is representative of a specific mindset that is ingrained in the culture of both said countries).

Instead of all of that neat cultural analysis, I want to talk about faking history for a moment.

It's certainly true that I am a little suspicious of Bolingbrook's supposed "Historic District".  I feel that the use of historic in that sense pales in comparison to evident history or Europe and Asia (even Africa and the native tribes of North America, though most tribal nations tend not to leave awesome building laying around) and is thus inauthentic.  But this in-authenticity at least comes from an earnest place.  Bolingbrook didn't try to find some tenuous connection to an earlier settlement to make it seem like the suburb predated Columbus.  

This is not true of the Gregynog building just outside Newtown.  This massive Tudor-like building sits in the middle of an AMAZING sprawl of fields and hills populated almost exclusively by farm animals.  The building itself is owned by the University of Wales (which doesn't exist any longer), and is used as a conference hall and hotel of sorts.  There are lots of paths through sheep and horse fields, through forests, and through some meticulously manicured gardens and lawns.  The drive up the winding long path gives a breathtaking view of this massive Tudor-style house sitting among some topiary bushes, across a stone bridge which crosses a ravine that cuts between the house and the near-by forest.  

But it's all a fake.  Built in the late 19th century, the building is almost entirely clad in concrete (interestingly, one of the first concrete-clad buildings of the time).  There are no timbers or plaster fillings.  The bricks are not structural, but decorative.  The building is made to look old, but it is not as old as it looks.  And thus is a lie.  

Now, earlier I praised Shrewsbury for continuing the Tudor and red-brick architectural styles throughout the more modern residential areas, so this above sentiment would seem contradictory.  The difference here, and it's a key difference, is that the facade of these Shrewsbury homes is made to resemble older styles, not replicate the style whole-hog.  That is, there is no denying that the houses in Shrewsbury are new houses, but they borrow for earlier veneer styles.  The Gregynog house tries to pass itself off as a Tudor house, when in fact it is nothing of the sort.  There is nothing on the exterior that suggests or even resembles concrete.  The very same material responsible for the crushingly depressing Cold War architecture of former Soviet countries.

Here, Gregynog does something upon which Bolingbrook can look down: denies it's heritage in favor of fake austerity stolen from previous styles.  It's a fine line to walk, but it's one that separates authentic history (Shrewsbury and Bolingbrook, lame as it is) and inauthentic history (Gregynog).  Bolingbrook's history might not be older than the most recent renovation to Stephanie's house in Shrewsbury, but at least it's an honest history.  

The Problems of Living in Resort Towns

Late March/Early April is when Wales (or maybe just Aberystwyth) becomes God's country.  The grey blanket that was laid over the seaside town in early October is pulled back, and the sun shines down on the blinking, staggering, rain soaked masses.  People come out, nervously at first, but then in droves.  As soon as the weather gets above 60 (16 in C), the Welsh start stripping their clothes off.  It probably was about 67 (17 or a bit more in C) today, maybe a bit warmer in the sun, and people were laying about the pebbly beaches in bikinis and bathing trunks.  Shirtless young men running about the beach, kicking soccer balls or chasing frisbees, and young women rolling up shirts and shaking the dust of long stored shorts.  The thing is: the sun won't last long.  "I've got my rain coat over here," joked one of my Welsh housemates.  "It could still rain today."

Aberystwyth, nestled between two hills and nearly in the center of the Cardigan Bay, has long been a tourist attraction, and during the Victorian era, this was the premiere getaway for Wealthy English.  They would stroll along the promenade, lunching on the pier (which at that point was a lot longer).  There are pictures in the pier hallways of people in top hats and long dresses meandering down the prominade.  With the exception of some electric lights and signage, not too much has changed in 120 or so years.

Easter is a prime time to visit Aberystwyth.  This time of the year, the shops, pubs and promenade fills with strange voices and accents.  People slowly walking along the shops as if they've never seen a high street before.  This is good for the community, and without this yearly migration of people from inland, Aberystwyth wouldn't be able to do what it does the rest of the year.

It's not like the rest of the year is deathly quiet.  Being a town built around and to support a University, the bars are never hurting for people looking to make bad decisions.  Like the tourists, packs of students meander about town, clogging up the high street with in a slow progression towards Subway and Costa.  Or if at night, scantily clad women, and cologne soaked men twittering down towards Yokos or Pier Pressure.

This one week, though, is a perfect storm for annoyances: young tourists looking to make the most of the sunny day, and students nearly finished with school work before Spring Break hits and they all abscond back home.  It makes for an odd mixture of tiny little children with Midlands accents running away from the waves, and University students swearing at each other and drinking cider by the liter in the early afternoon.  All of them fighting for a bit of pebbly beach  to enjoy in the first bits of warm sun.

It makes doing routine things like grocery shopping or going to Spar especially obnoxious.  I begrudgingly accept that there are not going to be a lot of bench spaces available on days like this, but I find I have little patience for people slowly stumbling about Co-Op looking for the sausages and rolls for an impromptu barbecue.

I know I sound like an old man chasing kids off my lawn, but I can't help it.  I find myself getting unnaturally bristly when I hear people talk about being on vacation here.  After all, they didn't suffer through the three months of pissing rain and winds strong enough to knock the breath out of you.  They didn't deal with the sleet and grey winter that seamless stretches on for weeks.  THEY don't have to clean up the mess once THEY are gone in three weeks.  It doesn't seem right that people who don't live here year round get to enjoy the beach and infringe on my quiet little seafront.  There are times in February when I the benches will go days without anyone sitting in them.  Now that it's nice enough for me, who has waited patiently through the nasty weather, to use them, there's somebody sitting there.  Somebody who drove in for the day.  And who'll just leave once the weather turns again.

But, as I sit here complaining, I realize, just short of saying it, the irony of it all.  I don't live here, per se.  I have an address here, and I certainly am here for other times during the year, but certainly not someone raised in Ceredigion County, having gone to Penglais Comprehensive, speaks Welsh, etc.  I imagine those that live here permanently look at me the same way I look at these opportunistic tourist taking up space on what I feel is my beach.  Damn international students.  Paying with their funny money and taking all our knowledge back home with them. Really, I am just as much a tourist as the people who come down just for the weekend.  My complaints about the tourist could neatly be reflected back at me.

The only difference, an important difference, too, is that they have somewhere to go back to.  Being a student living in two countries, I have no where to go.  Chicago feels like a trip to visit my friends and family, and I certainly lack permanence here in Aberystwyth, having to store all my stuff in a closet when I leave.


This is the heart of it: the tourist make me feel lonely.  You can go visit a place when you have a home.  All of my stuff fits in about two small rooms (one of which can be stored in a closet).  I don't really have a home, per se.  So when people come to visit, it's like rubbing their permanence in my face.  It's been a long time living in temporary conditions, and I am nearing the end of it.  But that end can't come fast enough.

I look forward to the day when I can pile my wife and my dog into the car or train, and nip off to some coastal town where I'll dirty up their beach for a while before going back to my cozy little house stuffed with my furniture and books.

Me V Socialized Medicine

About two weeks ago, I was washing up in the shower and noticed a lump in my armpit.  I've gotten pimples in more unusual places, so I didn't think much of it, and went about my life.  A week ago, though, I started getting pressure pains in the same area.  I did what no one should ever do when nervous about something weird on the body: I went to WebMD.

The initial prognosis was not good: cancer.  Some kind of cancer, be it one of the lymphomas or a rare case of breast cancer that can sometimes occur in men.  Or possibly some other sort of awful infection of the lymph system which can cause all sorts of undue health issues down the road.  Or just an infected hair follicle (I'll say you the worry and let you know that it is most likely an abscess caused by a clogged sweat glad, and not some incurable rapidly spreading form of cancer).

Luckily for me, though, I was in the UK and could go to the doctor for free (as all students in the UK can do when studying for more than six months).  There are heart-related health issues that run in my family, and while it is likely that my Dad's ALS was triggered by a drug interaction, I still find myself a little antsy when my arms hurt (which is where his ALS started).  So, figuring I was dying of cancer, had clotted arteries, or blood pressure shooting through the roof, I decided to make an appointment to see a doctor.  This is the second time, see more below, and I want to dispel some rumors about socialized medicine here.

See: when I was in America I was one of the millions of Americans that did not make enough money to afford health insurance.  When I was at Carbondale, I could benefit by going to the Student Health Services for $6 for most things.  When I left Carbondale, I was left to my own devices, and like so many others, I decided to pay for things like phone service and gas money than I did for insurance with an insanely high deductible and minimal coverage.  Luckily, I am don't often get sick (though, having said that, I will likely be stricken with something here soon), so it wasn't too much of a problem, but there were a few scares where splitting headaches wouldn't go away for days or a weird pain would shoot down my left arm.  I was then left to decide if what I felt was bad enough to see a very expensive doctor, or if I should see if I got better on my own.  I'm still alive today, so again: Keegan = lucky so far.

Here, though, I can see a doctor for free.  When I got to the UK, I had no idea how to sign up for an NHS card, so I let an entire year and a half go by before I decided it was worth looking into.  Then, right after I got back here for this school year, I got really sick and worried about what I would do if I needed hospitalization.  So I asked my friends here, and they told me to register with a local doctor.  I went to the one my friend Rachel suggest (Church Surgery), and just asked at the desk.  A few forms later, and I was in the system.  A week later, and a card came for me.  Just like that, I was insured.

Ironically, I ended up losing hearing in my left ear due to an infection that caused a massive waxy buildup shortly after I registered.  Terrified that I had gone deaf (I don't often freak out about medical things, despite what this blog suggests), I went back to the doctor, but my registration with the NHS hadn't gone through.  This is was one concern I had: large government run things can sometimes be really inefficient, and thus I could be denied care.  I've been to the DMV; I knew what to expect.  Without any hesitation, though, I was given an appointment and told that they would sort it out later.  Technically, I was uninsured, but with faith in the system, I was assumed covered.

Thus arose my second concern: that I would have to wait months for my appointment.  There are horror stories passed around about how people need to wait months for critical surgeries, or how people critically wounded spent days in the emergency room.  You'll wait forever to get an appointment, people would say.  And by that point, you'll have died.  So, when the lady asked me if I had that afternoon free, I was most surprised.  I literally waited four hours for my appointment, but it was a four hour wait I knew was coming.  So I went home.  I think I did laundry.  Quietly, because I had lost my hearing in one ear.  That afternoon, the doctor looked in, saw the buildup, and suggested some drops.  That night I could hear better than I had for months previous (the problem with slow buildups is that one does not recognize subtle changes).

When I found the lump in my armpit, I went over to make an appointment and found that I would not be that lucky.  I was asked if my issue was an emergency.  Wanting it not to be, I said no, hoping I could will it with my blase attitude into being just an abscess.  The nurse turned around and flipped through her appointment book, "Let's see here, when can we fit you in..."  She flipped through pages - what seemed like months.  "How is next Monday?" she asked.

So, one time, I waited four hours.  The next time I waited a week.  I know stats people will lose their mind over this, but on average, I wait 3.58 days for an appointment.  Which, if I remember right, is about what I would wait for an appointment in the States, fully insured (and so long as I didn't have an HMO, because then the waits can be quite a bit longer...).

I realize that there are caveats to this story:
1) I live in a small town that has surgery hours set aside for students.
2) None of my concerns have been life threatening or chronic.
3) Nothing has needed immediate or complicated treatment.
4) Wales in not London, or Birmingham, or Manchester, or even Shrewsberry for that matter.  Small places always = shorter wait times.
That said, I have had no complaints about the medical coverage over here.  The doctor's office was clean and professional.  The Death Panel cleared me with little argument (THERE ARE NO DEATH PANELS, YOU IDIOTS!  Never, anywhere, could a civilized country get away with killing off old people; the UN would have a fit and Florida would go bankrupt).  All in all, I have been extremely satisfied with my experience.

Today, when I got home for the doctor, I scrolled through Facebook, and my friend Sara recommended Fahreed Zakaria's new article on Swiss and Taiwanese health care (and, really, the rest of the world), and how it compares to the US.  Interestingly, it didn't look at how socialized medicine is a better way forward ethically, nor did it look to debunk the myths about death panels or wait times.  Instead, Zakaria approached it financially.  Financially speaking, Americans, American employers, and the American government pay more (more than 22 other financially similar countries) for less care (and, as Zakaria notes, less satisfying care).  We die younger and our babies have less a chance for survival.  In short, a country that prides itself on having the best of everything provides the worst health care in the industrialized world (more than Argentina or India, which are not known to be countries rolling in splendor).

In the end, universal health care just makes the most sense.  The US spends more money on health care, as individuals, as an employer and as a nation, than anyone else, so financially, the health care needs to be reformed.  Those that complain the government is too involved can rest assured that less tax dollars will go towards a universal system than do the one currently operating (see the above link, slide 26 for evidence to that end), and a system like Switzerland would allow for a more free-market solution that would remove a lot of government involvement.  Economically, healthier people = healthy workers; I'm not economist, but I think a strong, longer living work force would be beneficial to the economy.  No matter how you look at it, there needs to be a change, and any step away from some sort of Universal Care is an unhealthy step.

See what I did there...

Freedom to Practice Religion

Let's get one thing clear before we begin: I am a Catholic.  My faith has wavered from time to time, but a Catholic nonetheless.  I believe that there is a God, and that God has influence in my life (and by extension other people, whether they believe in God or not).  I try my hardest to follow the Golden Rule (treating others as I would want to be treated), as well as loving and caring for those with whom I share this planet.  My Catholic faith, and the values it has instilled in me, are a large part of the reason I am who I am today.

That said, I have been appalled by how the Catholic and Christian faith is being bandied about during this election season, particularly on the issues of contraception and gay marriage.

What I find most alarming is how people claim that equal access to something is infringing upon the freedom to practice religion.  It is certainly true that Catholics don't believe in contraception, and to ask Catholic organizations to provide contraceptive options to their female and male, non-Catholic employees goes against their held beliefs.  But no one is forcing Christian organizations to act in the public sector.  There are religions that believe this or that to be immoral, and thus remove themselves from those aspects of society.  For example, the Amish who reject a lot of the conveniences of modern society for reasons of morality or religious obligation.  The Amish are free to live and do as they please, but they are not allowed to force those beliefs on others.  If the Amish started providing a charity organization that worked in cooperation with the government that employed non-Amish people, they wouldn't be allowed to demand that each employee behave in a certain way.

The same is true of all freedoms.  I am allowed to own a gun (which, here in Britain, people find it quite alarming that I can just walk into a place, and buy a weapon that can produce instant death; especially in light of recent school shootings).  I am allowed to carry that gun with me to certain places.  I am even allowed to discharge that weapon in specially sanctioned places.  I am not, however, allowed to carry or discharge my weapon in such a way that it infringes on the rights of others.  The same is true of religion.

There is a big deal made about how kids are not forced to say things like "under God" or have a prayer before major school events.  People claim that God is being forced from the schools.  One image that was being passed around on the social media sites suggested that the recent school shootings and other violence in school is because God is not allowed in any more (I searched for the image and found it on this kids blog, which I think is great; the mixed messages are just fantastic).  This is patently untrue.  No one is saying that you can't pray in public, what is true is that you can't force other people to sit through large group prayer as part of a public function.  I was raised Catholic and went to public school until I was in high school.  I used to pray at school by myself all the time.  I used to talk about going to CCD classes with my non-Catholic friends.  I used to talk with my Catholic friends about church (though, not a lot, and usually just to acknowledge that we both had gone).  If I had been more motivated, I could have organized prayer circles with friends so we could pray together, in private.  In sixth grade, we learned about different cultures, and one section was about Christianity.  At that point, I was even allowed to debate, as much as a sixth grader could, the beliefs and doctrines of the Church.  AS PART OF CLASS!

The same is true with all public spaces.  When I was more devout in high school, I used to pray over meals at public restaurants.  I used to play in a church band that would play free concerts in public spaces.  I used to do fundraisers for the Catholic charities knocking on doors and praying with people who donated food stuffs.  No one ever stopped me.  And no one was forced to join in.

But the fact of the matter is, not everyone is Catholic.  Regardless of whether or not everyone should believe in the Christian God (that is another post for another time), these people are all allowed to have the same freedom to practice or not practice as they see fit.  This is why college campuses with have interfaith chapels, and prayer rooms for Muslims.  Would people be so vocal about the freedom to practice religion if everyone had to stop five times a day to allow the Muslims to pray?  Probably not.

This extends to not only practices but beliefs.  Muslims, Jews and Hindus all have permanent religious dietary beliefs.  I notice that the country is not quick to ban pork, beef and alcohol.  The aforementioned Amish don't allow the use of electricity, but no one is going to suggest that the nation go dark just to accommodate one religious belief (plus, my reader base would be greatly reduced, and then fewer people would have opportunities to read about buying pants in Wales).  On the subject of leg ware, there are several sections in the Christian Bible that suggest women shouldn't wear pants or expose their bodies, and some Christian sects follow these guidelines very dutifully:

Deuteronomy 22:5 The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

1 Timothy 2:9 In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.

However, I don't see former Senator Santorum or former Governor Romney jumping in to say that all pants and kilts be banned nation wide, along with jewelry of any kind, including their wive's collection of earrings and necklaces.  Why?  Because these religious doctrines would infringe upon the freedoms of others (I would love to see how the oil and natural gas companies react if there were an Amish Republican demanding for conservation of electricity and a ban on all cars; it would be fair to say the Amish are the most conservative people in America, so they should make for good Republican candidates...save for that whole isolationism and simple living bit...).

The same extends to contraception and marriage.  It was decided that contraception was legal years ago, and frankly for good reasons.  The biggest being that not everyone finds it morally problematic.  Seven states currently have legalized gay marriage, and again, because not everyone (especially gay people) find a problem with same-sex marriage.  We, as a country, decided long ago that our religious practices were not to infringe upon others basic freedoms.  This is what President Kennedy was speaking about in 1960, a speech that made former Senator Santorum "want to throw up" (ironically, it was because of Kennedy that Santorum is even allowed to be considered for the office of President):

I believe in an America...

• that is officially neither Catholic, Protestant nor Jewish; where no public official either requests or accepts instructions on public policy from the Pope, the National Council of Churches or any other ecclesiastical source;

• where no religious body seeks to impose its will directly or indirectly upon the general populace or the public acts of its officials; and

• where religious liberty is so indivisible that an act against one church is treated as an act against all.

The second and third bullet points are particularly poignant here, and it shouldn't be one without the other.  The full speech is linked above, and every time I read it, I am made happier to be a citizen of a country that gave the world someone like John F. Kennedy.

If those inspiring words, or ones similar from former Presidents like Jefferson, can't convince politicians to back off this issue, then maybe Christian politicians should look to the doctrine they claim to believe in so fervently:

Matthew 6: 1-8

Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.  Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.  But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth: That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly. And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.  But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.  But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.  Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him. 

Academic Courtship

I was given a rare opportunity here at Aberystwyth: to give a lecture to the department (well, really anyone that wanted to come, but most people were from the English department).  This was not as part of a larger conference, or as part of a panel.  This was an hour dedicated to my research.  This lecture was part of the department's Work in Progress series that allows for staff and PhD students to talk about whatever research project is going on.  So far this year, (newly made) Professor Damien Walford Davies, Chair of the department, gave a lecture on literary cartography, and Professor Peter Barry, my supervisor, gave a lecture on place and time in elegiac poetry.  Next week, fellow PhD student, Bill Welsted will be speaking about braided narratives in Welsh eco-poetry.

I was given a spot in the series, and with some trepidation decided to talk about Marvel comics.

The crux of my argument is that Marvel comics tries to keep their stock of heroes relevant by using major cross-over events to examine the role of superheroes in American culture while still maintaining the continuity of the established Universe.  This, I argue, is in stark contrast to DC who generally just erase the more unseemly or confusing aspects of their continuity by either rebooting characters or having all the parallel Universes fight each other.  I argue that Marvel's method of restructuring allows for their character to better reflect the complicated relationship America has to superheroes.  For example, Captain America's brand of blind government obedience is no longer relevant in an America which is riddled with political and corporate corruption.  To make Captain America better represent the new American spirit, they had him duke it out with Iron-Man.  At the end of the fight, where both took opposite sides of a debate regarding freedom and identity, Captain America realized the errors of his ways, and gave himself up.  In this way, Captain America (the character) makes the changes needed to stay relevant (though they did kill him shortly after).

Not the most academic of arguments, particularly in light of those that came before me and those that are to come after.  I wasn't dealing with "great" literature, or Literature.  I wasn't even looking at the arty, gritty black-and-white "adult" comics that people like to bandy about as "graphic novels".  I was doing a cultural analysis of a popular medium, so I was a little worried that no one was going to show up.  And also, it wasn't very well advertised.

But...I wrote what I considered to be an interesting paper, whipped up a Flash animation using Prezi, and prepared as best I could for the Q&A session.

Firstly, to my surprise, it was very well attended.  I was expecting some of the younger academics, and especially my friends, to show up.  But there was also a mess of people I didn't know.  So many people, in fact, they had used up all the chairs, and people were left to squat or sit on the ground (though, to be fair, it wasn't a large room).  Besides the young kids who might read it, there were also three senior members of staff, and two junior members.

Secondly, I was surprised at how well it was received.  There are two big concerns I have when I look at superhero comics in the UK:

1) (and this is a concern that manifests itself in America, too) Comic book fans consider themselves to be experts in comicbook theory.  Let me explain this problem another way: if you were giving a paper on, say, the role of the supernatural in Gothic fiction, only people familiar with Radcliffe and the like would feel like they are experts; not anyone who has ever read a novel.  But with comics, people equate knowledge of a character or series with expertise.  I will be one to admit that I am not well versed in DC after 1985.  I am aware of the stock of characters, the general back stories, and so forth, but I have never been a fan of DC.  That said, I have done research on what Superman and Batman represent as cultural artifacts.  I understand the history of the superhero and understand the role the two play in the development of the medium.  I might not know every story line, but I know more critical material relating to DC and Marvel than most people would.   Many people might know that Superman fought Muhammad Ali, but not so many would be able to articulate why that is culturally relevant.

So, when I talk about superheroes, I am often faced with a crowd that bases credibility on depth of knowledge (and the more arcane the knowledge, the more credible I appear).  There were a few people in the crowd like that who were looking to challenge my argument simply because they knew a lot about DCs recent New 52 reboot.

2) 2000AD and Tank Girl aside, the British don't get into superheroes the way that Americans do.  It wasn't part of their cultural heritage, so that requires me to be very thorough in my explication.  The characters, the history, the major (though difficult to spot) differences between DC and Marvel: these are not part of their vocabulary.

So, unlike with the people mentioned in #1, I have to be more generalized and possibly gloss over some of the intricacies of the character's history (like, for example, I didn't feel it was necessary to talk about all the different side-kicks that Captain America had; or that time when Steve Rogers, and later Bucky replacement Jack Monroe, were Nomad, fighting for the American dream underground-style).  I'm left usually making sweeping generalizations for the sake of clarity rather than make a more nuanced argument that requires a lot of detailed knowledge.

One paper; two audiences.  It's a fine line to walk.  On the one hand, I'd like not to underestimate my audience by overly explaining the essentials of superheroes; but on the other hand, I don't want to get bogged down in a "who's who in the Marvel Universe" paper.

This was a good practice for maintaining that balance, and in the Q&A session, one of my colleagues asked how I managed to keep it all straight.  For that, I can thank the Internet, particularly Wikipedia and ComicVine.

But, this is not really a post about how awesome I am at presenting.  This is a post about "impact".

That's a word that is floating around British Academic Departments a lot these days, and it's not entirely clear what is really meant by it.  By my understanding, it's meant to be the reach my research is to have beyond the walls of academia.  The more impactful your research, the more the general public will be interested, the more the department can shop you around as a commodity.  As I near the end of my thesis, the more I am worried that a structural analysis of comic books is not an impactful thesis.

So, when I signed up for this presentation, and I was asked what work-in-progress I was going to present, I had two options: 1) I could look at how the layout of comics conveys meaning (the chapter I am working on now); or 2) I could look at how the international political influences in contemporary America have influenced the superhero, as well as what that might say about America's understanding of itself.  It seemed the second of the two options would reach and appeal to a larger audience.  I've tried floating my structural work on comics by a general audience and it tends to fall flat, so I thought I would try the second.

I am by no means a historically-informed critic.  In fact, I tend not to know when things are written, but more have a vague understanding of when works came in relation to others.  For example, I know that the Modernist writers were at the beginning of the 20th century and followed the Victorians who followed the Romantics.  I know that Lyrical Ballads came after Shakespeare but before The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  So, thinking about the way contemporary politics have influenced comic books was a new territory for me, but I feel it went well.  At least people keep telling me it did.  And that's good enough for me.

But most importantly, it went well in front of a sizable audience of my peers and colleagues.  What I hoped to show with this is that I can adapt my scholarly interests to the audience that is going to attend.  For an audience that is interested in narrative structuralism, I can do something a bit more theoretical; a more generalized audience, a more generalized scholarship.

I guess, at the heart of it, I've learned something from superhero comics: you need to stay relevant to the readership that is going to be buying your commodity (in this case, me as a knowledgeable expert in something).  I can do as Marvel has done, and run parallel scholarly arcs that try to wrestle with the changes while maintaining a sense of continuity.  Or I can do as DC has done and reboot my scholarship every few years, totally erasing and marginalizing what has come before.

As I See It

I've spent the better part of these last few years talking about the unfortunate things that have happened to me, and as a result, this blog has tapered off a bit (that, and I am writing a thesis; a little leeway should be given in regards to that).  After all, there is only so much dwelling that one can do on the darker parts of one's navel before one turns completely and desperately inward.

But then I meet Catherine.  And things took a step in the awesome direction.

So, while reflecting in the shower (my favorite of reflection zones), I decided I should enlighten those who aren't familiar with what has happened recently.  Or at least shed some light on us from my unique perspective.

About July, I got an email from a former girlfriend of mine who had read a particularly depressing blog entry and decided that enough was enough.  Maybe so that she didn't have to listen to me gripe anymore, or maybe she was overwhelmed, as she writes about in her blog, by a feeling to help someone too strong to ignore. Either way, she sent me this email, via Facebook:

I know this sounds weird and totally random, but I think you should meet up with Catherine this summer. I haven't spoken to either of you in years, but I just have this feeling.Ok. That's all!

A bit of backstory: this girlfriend and I had what I considered to be a bit of a tumultuous breakup (especially because I was at the tender age of 14 or 15, when all breakups were tumultuous, heart-rendering affairs), and we had only sparing conversations in the intervening 16 years between the breakup and the above email.  An email from an estranged ex-girlfriend looking to set me up with a friend of hers who I vaguely remembered from my time in high school seemed like: a) an elaborate payback for something I did wrong when I was a wee teenager (I was wee, too, in high school); or b) a totally random, nearly blind date set-up that could, at best, be a pleasant distraction from my crippling loneliness, or at worst, be an uncomfortable evening.  I found out from Mo that she had sent a similar email to Catherine.  So I did what all suave, tech-savvy 21st century men do: sent a friend request and then constantly checked my Facebook account for validation.

See: I knew Catherine was given the same instructions from Mo, so I figured I would take the first step and reach out.  Having crossed that threshold, I figured she would email me to say hello and break the verbal ice.  Once my virtual friendship was accepted, and I creepily trolled through all her pictures as one does these days, before I resumed checking Facebook to see when she would take a step closer to me.

And nothing.

Depending on my mood, I claim it was anywhere between a few days to a month or so before I decided to sack up and send her an email (it more than likely was about two days, if even that).  After pining for months on end, I decided to give it one last try; I was going to send a short email to see if we could just talk to each other in a safe, virtual environment.  If there was no response to this second attempt, I was just going to give up, pack it in, pull up stakes in America, and ex-patriate for good.

This second attempt is probably the best decision I have made in some time.  The email, which was quite short, hinted that I read her blog, and that she should continue writing.  I write.  A lot.  So I figured this might be some common ground.  Again, I waited.  But this time, I got a response.  To which I responded.  And on and on and on.  Then, without much warning, plans were made, times set, etc.

Suddenly, I had a date.  Catherine might say that she understood our initial meeting differently, but I want to officially go on record to claim that on our first date we saw Horrible Bosses at the Woodridge Theatre.  July 8, 2011.  I also want to retrospectively thank her for not wanting to see Green Lantern (which was my first suggestion, and which, when I saw it on the plane here in the fall, was terrible).

From those humble beginning (we also shared some food at Buffalo Wild Wings), things began snowballing, one date turned into a second date.  That turned into two consecutive nights of dating.  More emails.  More dating.  Weekends away.  Family to meet.  Less time spent apart than together.  Soon, by the end of the summer, I was seeing her every night and staying up way to late for either of us to be productive.

This, though, was not the plan.  As I had said, I saw it as a date when we saw Horrible Bosses, but I did not hold out too much hope that we would last.  I had done long distance relationship before (in fact, most in my adult life have had some distance put between myself and the woman I am dating), and it never worked out well.  It had worked out disastrously in the last instance, and I was neither keen to make that same mistake, or get put myself in that emotional position again.  I figured this would be a summer fling, something to get my mojo back before I jetted off for sunny, sexy Aberystwyth.  And here I was, September and falling madly in love with another Chicago woman.

We decided to play it by ear and see if we could give this thing a chance.  I'll give this to Catherine: she is one of the few people who I've actually grown closer to over Skype.  She gets up early to talk to me before work.  We talk during her lunch hour.  Then she'll call me when she gets home from work.  Granted, not every day, but without fail, she makes time for me (and I in turn make time for her).  Surprisingly, our relationship was flourish despite being 3000 miles apart.

This is not to say that things have always been easy.  I won't air our dirty laundry on the internet, but I will say that we have somehow made this work through mostly virtual communication.  That, in and of itself, speaks volumes to both our dedication to this relationship; a dedication that made me relax a lot more as things seemed to race towards seriousness.

She came out for a visit in October which was too fast and hectic to remark on much.  It was a last minute trip decided upon when Catherine decided she wanted to see me and didn't want to wait until Christmas.  I was glad she made that decision, because I was missing her equally as badly.  Plus, she got to witness my Glorious Winter Beard in all its glorious wintry-ness.  I like to think that I converted Catherine to a beard lover on that trip.

When I went home for Christmas, I saw her nearly every day, and we even made appearances at each other's family Christmas Gatherings.  It was a chance for our families to spend more time with the mysterious person the other was dating.  After all, I had known Catherine for a scant two months before jetting off to Wales; hardly enough time to get to know each other.

Unfortunately, all this dog-and-pony-ing that we did left little time for us.  It was decided, then, that Catherine would come to visit me, and just me, in London for a week (originally Italy, but neither of us speak Italian, and that could have been just as hectic as Christmas).

Between Christmas and her visit, I had this niggling feeling at the back of my mind that Catherine was the one for me.  Every time this thought popped into my head, I did what every grown man secure in his emotional development would do: panicked and dove into work.  Catherine would occasionally bring up similar feelings, and I tried desperately not to talk about it.  I pleaded that she just accept that I was committed to her, and that things would progress naturally.  I just needed time to think (or, in most cases, ignore the issue entirely).

Honestly, I was scared to become engaged again.  It didn't work out well for me last time, and though I knew Catherine was different, I didn't want to take a similar step that blew up in my face.  I needed time, I kept telling myself.  Time.

And yet, I found myself drifting to jewelry stores when I wandered through town.  In Aberystwyth, most of the jewelry shops have their wares on display in windows facing outside, and I would stand staring at the rings until something would snap and I would run away.  Sometimes, the workers would ask me if I needed help, and I would stammer and walk away like someone casing the joint to rob it.  I was a mess.  I would think about getting married to Catherine, freak out about it, ignore it, find myself outside a jewelry store, freak out again, and repeat.

Sometimes, though, like with Mo emailing me, the Universe reaches out and shoves you toward the right thing to do.

See: I am a practical person by nature.  I like to buy stuff, but I don't like to pay more than I have to.  The weekend before Catherine was meant to come to London, one of the jewelry stores in town put a lot of their engagement rings on sale for up to 50% off.  I actually found myself saying, At prices like these, I would be a fool NOT to buy the ring.  So, with the Universe's boot squarely up my ass, I bought a simple diamond setting that I agnonized over for several days, and then again for about an hour at the store.  You see: Catherine doesn't wear jewelry.  Hardly ever.  So I had no idea what to get her, save the few small hints she gave: not too big, simple, not too showy.

I wasn't sure when I would ask her, but I had the ring.  And that was a big step.  I took it with me to London, figuring if the opportunity presented itself, I would ask her.  I left myself an out though.  I had planned a nice dinner with her, one in which we got dressed up.  Since I was going to be missing her birthday, and because Valentine's Day was earlier in the week, I figured the dinner could count for both.  But, if things were going well, I could also propose.

In short: things went amazingly.  And by Sunday, I was never so sure of anything in my life.  All the anxiety and second-guessing seemed like something I had dreamed, like something vaguely remembered from a past life.  So, after we walked home from dinner, I asked her in the condo we rented that belonged to the former Ambassador to Portugal in Nottinghill.  A perfect ending to a perfect week.

Now, all that remains is the rest of our lives.

Football, Celebrations, Narrative and Cultural Differences

I like the Super Bowl, particularly as I have become something of an expert on American sports among my friends here in the UK.  Not because I know a lot (which I know some), but because I have regularly seen some games, and in one rare instance, I have seen a game live.  And I am the only one in the room who has been within a few hundred miles of an American football game.  Thus: expert.  

But really, the game itself is not so different from any other game.  One team tries to get an object from one end of the field to the other.  American football does this by running and throwing the ball, and occasionally kicking it.  This is essentially true for rugby, though there is significantly more kicking there, and for what the rest of the world calls football, which actually only uses the foot to move the ball, making it the most aptly named football. That aspect of the game is not too hard to grad.  

Even the more minute aspects of the game can be picked up from watching it for a little bit.  The total number of downs, rule violations like holding and roughing the passer, and crucial issues like when a catch is a catch will either be explained by the TV or by common sense.  Oh...so when the guy holds the other guy that's called   holding.  I can be more valuable, as I was this game, when the more bizarre violations come up, like an intentional grounding or a safety.  But even then I tend to just say what the TV presenters would say eventually.  

What I can do is shed some light on the cultural differences between British sports and American sports, particularly football.  And one major difference happens almost immediately in every football game: celebrations/grand standing.  Everything from routine tackles to touchdowns seem to warrant a hyper-masculine display of dominance.  People like Jared Allen and Roy Williams (the receiver who celebrates every catch as if he just cured cancer) are some the worst celebrators.

Now, before everyone gets on me for saying that these sorts of celebrations are an American thing, I know full well that soccer and rugby players are equally as celebratory when they score a goal.  More so, some of these celebrations can border on the absurd.  That said, most soccer players only celebrate when they score a goal, and in most games that is not more than once or twice a team each game.  In football, the American kind, people celebrate after every minor achievement.  If the cornerback disrupts the play, he might pop up and wave his arms around wildly as if to suggest that he would never let a completion happen when he was on the field (regardless of how many times a wide receiver might make a catch).  A safety tackles a running back in the open field and he acts as if such things could never happen (again, despite the previous history of the game).  

Roy Williams, who was on my home team, the Bears, is awful about this.  This year, he had 37 receptions for 507 yards and 2 touchdowns.  That makes him about the 70th best receiver in the game, excluding running backs and tight ends, and his worst season by far.  Some more interesting stats: historically, Roy Williams drops 8.2% of his passes, and he leads the league in this particular category; also, he is the third most unreliable receiver in the game, catching 48% of the passes thrown his way.  And with the Bears, that was no exception.  Despite his mediocre season and piss-poor stats, when he did make a completion, he would pop up off the grass mimicking the first down indication from the line judges.  Seeing a man celebrate performing the task he earns millions to do when he leads the league in not doing that job (and it is assumed that he probably won't) grates on the nerves.  Just what is he celebrating?  Not sucking?  

It raises questions about what is worthy of a celebration.  Most people who don't like or see the value in sports would say that none of these mutant freaks should celebrate being doing something as simple as getting a ball across a line.  After all, what really changed when that happened?  Society is not better, people still die of diseases, our climate is running rampantly out of control, and my iPod can only hold 120 GB.  Scoring a touchdown did nothing to improve the lives of anyone.

I'm not in that camp, and I see some value to sports as an entertainment, and even more so as a means of social narrative.  So the touchdown, for my interests in the game, serve as important narratological moments, indicators of when the narrative shifts.  However, not everything that happens is significant.  When discussing note taking and high lighting, my college professor Mark Willhardt used to say that when everything is highlighted, nothing is important; that is, when you suggest that everything is worthy of attention, then nothing is singled out as being important.  The same rule should apply to football: when you make an important play, one that changes the nature of the game...then you can celebrate.  Sack a quarterback for a ten yard loss on third and one?  Celebrate.  Sack a quarterback for no loss on first and ten, when two plays later his team is celebrating a touchdown?  Well...that celebration seems a bit premature.

This, though, brings us to the heart of the issue: narrative suggestions.  I like to consider all of football to be one massive narrative construction.  Each aspect of the game is like telling a story, and the celebration is included in that.  What the player is saying with his celebration is not that what he just did is important in that moment, but that what he did is important for the outcome of the game.  An historical inevitability that will eventually culminate with several other similar celebrations to cap off the narrative of victory that was started with that first every-day tackle in the open field.  What the middle line backer is saying when he sacks the quarterback and does a stupid dance is not just that he is proud of what he's done, but he is foreshadowing the eventual celebration at the end of the game.  Sometimes, the opposing team will buy that narrative and succumb to the psychological trickery.  Other times, and as is often the case with people defending Roy Williams, they will wait for him to screw up again, and change the nature of the narrative being written.  

Maybe if soccer games had to end with a winner and a loser, there might be more reason to celebrate the smaller things.  With the option of a draw, what is the point of foreshadowing a mutual non-win?  There is a certain competitive drive that stems from telling a story of victory and leads to this type of display, and a situation in which a draw is possible just doesn't foster that competition.  Not that soccer players aren't as competitive; it's just a different story being told, and one most Americans are not keen to watch unfold.  

There was one other thing my British friends didn't understand: the Giants were crowned the World Champions when they won the Super Bowl.  For a league that doesn't even have a team outside the US, this seems like a spurious claim.  Baseball and basketball at least have teams in Canada to give the thinnest veneer of World Wide Competition.  But the NFL is only American, and purely American.  Until the NFL is global commodity, and with the possibility of expanded games in London, it might be more of a possibility, tit is a little premature to call the Giants the World Champions.  Even if we can assume that, with no other possible teams and little interest, the Giants would mop the floor with everyone else (hell, probably even the Seahawks could do that), that claim can't be made until the Giants have bested all the world's competition.  When that happens, and I hope it will be in my lifetime, then there will be reason to celebrate.  

I Really Hate Newt Gingrich

I'm just going to flatly say it outright here: I hate Newt Gingrich.  I've been charged with coming down too hard on the Republicans, so I want to say this first: I don't hate Newt Gingrich because he is a Republican.  I hate Newt Gingrich because he spouts the sort of hate rhetoric that validates the terrible thoughts and feelings for which closed-minded people need to be chastised.  In short, I hate Newt Gingrich because he makes it okay to be a bull-headed jackass.  He's a bully.  He's mean-spirited.  And he's given a national platform to give the other mean-spirited bullies a voice.

Let's look at this article from today's Huffington Post regarding gay marriage.  Gingrich has been on this soap box for most of his campaign.  He can't seem to wait to talk about it when asked questions in the debates.  He takes a hard line on it, often referring to it as counter to the foundations of civilization.  He's quoted as saying such in the above article: "The effort to create alternatives to marriage between a man and a woman are perfectly natural pagan behaviors, but they are a fundamental violation of our civilization."  This is more than just suggesting that same-sex couples violate his understanding of morality; he claims that they violate the basic foundations of civilization (and, actually, anyone who is not Catholic/christian does so as well).  In this quote, which can be read in all it's inflammatory context in the Huffington Post article, connects heterosexual marriage to the founding principals of modern mankind.  For Gingrich, the Bible and heterosexuality is what got the lone hunter gathering early man to form societies.

There are a lot of problems with this statement, and I actually have a lot to do, so I won't waste your time in pointing out too much of the obvious and dissecting all the places Gingrich is clearly mistaken.  I will say, though, that there was a lot of same-sex goings-on in the works of Plato.  Gingrich might want to read Phaedrus or The Symposium before he claims that civilization is founded on heterosexual marriage. 

The point I want to make here revolves around something that is truly at the center of America: the right to Free Speech.  America has long stood firm on the issue of Free Speech.  Newt Gingrinch is constitutionally protected when he spouts this sort of hate rhetoric, as was Sarah Palin when she posted pictures with Democrats in cross-hairs shortly before one misguided person attempted to assassinate a Democrat in public.  Anyone is allowed to say anything publicly so long as it does not directly incite riots or is not blatantly false.  Both of those things are hard to prove, so really, most anyone can say anything in America (well, so long as you don't upset the large corporations or Wall St. - then you get pepper sprayed for saying what you want).

Free Speech is not constitutionally guaranteed in the UK, and I am starting to understand why.  There are laws on the books here for inciting hatred and inciting violence that would have taken both Gingrinch and Palin out of public eye.  It might be that the Freedom of Speech is a responsibility America is not capable of handling.  

The problem with Free Speech is that words have lasting and far reaching effects.  Now, while Gingrich certainly never claims that anyone should do anything to a gay person (much like Palin never said to shoot Gabby Gifford directly), what he is saying is that gay people are not part of normal society.  And as a public figure, and apparently a more popular public figure than I had previously suspected, his complete condemnation of gay people validates those same beliefs in less level-headed people.  Much in the same way that profiling institutionalized racism, making loud claims about homosexuality being abnormal in human civilization allows for people to continue to think that these Americans are not real Americans (or good Americans, or even real or good people).  Sometimes when people feel strongly about something, and they lack that little voice in their head that stays a violent hand, people will act out.  There certainly are enough bullies terrorizing gay people as is.  Gingrich might as well have patted them all on the head.

These sentiments are hard enough to take from Santorum and Perry who both came down hard on gay marriage.  Both, though, have remained faithful to their spouses which suggests that they take their marriage vows seriously (at least publicly).  In the end, their message is consistent with their upbringing, and as abhorrent and oppressive as these beliefs are, there is nothing inherently hypocritical about it.  Santorum and Parry walk the walk of their insanely moronic talk.

Gingrich, though, has extremely dubious personal morals, especially when it comes to marriage.  Besides being unfaithful several times in all of his marriages, he divorced his first wife while she was recovering from surgery in the hospital.  Because he was having an affair.  With a younger woman.  WHILE SHE WAS IN THE HOSPITAL BEING TREATED FOR CANCER!  According to former aids, Gingrich has said, "She's not young enough or pretty enough to be the wife of the President. And besides, she has cancer."  Gingrich, though, denies saying it.  He has claimed, and rightfully so, that those were mistakes of a younger man.  That argument would hold water if he did push for another divorce after cheating on his second wife.  And then to go on and claim this: "There's no question at times in my life, partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country, that I worked too hard and things happened in my life that were not appropriate."  So his infidelities were not because he lacks strong moral character; his infidelities are because he works too hard for the country he loves.

Three wives and two divorces; both divorces stemming from infidelity.  All of this from a supposed Catholic.
Now, I am no expert, but the Catholic church doesn't allow divorce.  Part of their core doctrine is that the sacred sacraments are binding for life (that whole "Until death do us part" bit in the vows which Gingrich should remember, having said them THREE times).  The Catholic church has been adamant about this for some time.  In fact, Henry the VIII forced the Church of England to break from Roman Catholicism so he could divorce his first wife, and that was in 1533, 479 years ago.  This is not a new belief.

I was livid about this earlier when I talked with Catherine.  I was furious that Gingrich was bullying Americans on the public stage, and gaining support in doing so.  Catherine laughed about it, saying, "At least he's the one saying it.  I mean, he has no leg to stand on.  When he comes out against gay marriage, he just looks like an idiot, and these statements seem ridiculous."  I hope she's right.  I hope that most people are smart enough to see the inherent flaws in Gingrich chastising homosexuality for violating the sanctity of marriage while he figuratively takes a steaming dump on that same institution.  But I have less faith in humanity.  I worry that when mean people hear their closed-minded views advocated, that's when people feel compelled to act on their beliefs.

TSA, Terrorism, and Sen. Rand Paul

Senator Rand Paul, (R) Ken., was recently detained at the airport by TSA agents, delaying his trip by an hour and a half and causing him to miss his flight.  Because of this, Sen. Paul, son of Presidential candidate and Republican Senator from Texas Ron Paul, has been hitting the media outlets to talk about dignity in travel and how, for frequent travelers, such "invasive" search procedures as full body patdowns and physical inspections of clothing items, seem almost draconian (my word, not his).

As a frequent traveler, and one frequently stopped by TSA agents, I can understand Sen. Paul's frustration.  I don't fly nearly half as often as he does, but I go through Heathrow and Ohare regularly.  However, I fully and adamantly disagree with Sen. Paul's solution.

In short, Sen. Paul wants "selective risk assessment" for "international travelers" and "people with ties to terrorist organizations".  There is another term for what the Senator is suggesting: profiling.

There are a lot of connotation justly associated with profiling, and Sen. Paul was smart not to use that term.  It suggests an institutionalized form of racism where TSA agents could just search someone not because they have "terrorist associations" (though, that term was loosely bandied about in the wake of Katrina to disastrous ends; read the book Zeitoun by Dave Eggers for more on that), but because they seem terrorist.  The government has come under some fire for how loosely they apply that term, and how Americans, innocent American citizens, have been held without a trial simply because someone thought that another person might have associations to terrorists.

The question, then, is how does a TSA agent, or the Department of Homeland Security, identify terrorist suspects?  How do they separate what Sen. Paul calls "normal Americans" from those that should be searched?  Interestingly, Sen. Paul has come out against the previous and current administration's unilateral power to profile and detain citizens.  In the above video, Sen. Paul questions the legality of using such factors as physical features or purchase histories as determinations.  So, again, how are these determinations made?

The problem with saying that only some people should get searched is that it creates a distinction between privileged people and those whose privileges have been suspended for some reason.  Of course, TSA full-body searches are not nearly as undignified as sitting in the back of a bus  or separate bathrooms, but there is a parallel that can be drawn.  After all, as Sen. Paul has said himself, these searches are undignified.  His suggestion for selective searches is a suggestion only to apply these indignities to certain people.

That is oppression, and oppression is always ugly.  Be it the oppression of same-sex couple who are denied marriage, the oppression of the poor by tax laws that favor the wealthy, or oppression of citizens who happen to meet whatever qualifications raise the suspicion of terrorism: you cannot deny one section of the population rights while allowing those same rights to another.

Sen. Rand Paul might benefit from remembering what every grade school teacher has told every student who has brought candy to class: you either bring enough for everyone, or no one gets any.  If the TSA decides that searches are necessary to prevent further terrorist attacks, then everyone should be searched (or, as it is done now, randomly from the entire populace).

He is right, though, that there are hundreds of stories of mistreatment at the hands of TSA agents.  Strange searches on the elderly and babies, people in wheel chairs, the terminally ill, and so on.  It would seem that his outrage and claims of indignity are justly leveled at the TSA.  What Sen. Paul fails to realize, though, is that the terrorist are not playing by any set rules.  For every story about a random search of a pregnant woman at an airport, there is a story about how bombs were strapped to pregnant women.  For every child's toy torn to pieces looking for bombs, their are bombs sewn into children's toys.  If a terrorist wants to get at America and America has a policy of not searching the elderly, it is likely the next attack is likely to come by way of an elderly American.  If the US stops searching citizens, then the terrorists will infiltrate American citizens.  In short, if the TSA decides not to search a certain segment of society, it stands to reason that would be the access point which the terrorists would use to gain entry to airplanes.

I have no problem with the searches (though the TSA agents could be nicer about it; no need to be surly and invasive), and I have been stopped and searched on about half of the flights I take.  It comes with flying alone on international flights, usually on one-way tickets.  I was pulled out on my Chicago to Seattle flight for a random full-body pat down.  My luggage is often opened and rifled through.  And honestly, I am fine with that.  For one, I don't have anything to hide.  Secondly, if there is a terrorist in line somewhere, and there are random searches, it might act as a deterrent - certainly more so than no randomized searches.

Of course, if Sen. Paul doesn't like being searched, he doesn't have to fly.  He could drive (or be driven) from one destination to the next; or if taking public transport is important, there are trains and buses available from most major cities (in fact, maybe the good Senator could throw his weight behind high-speed train travel...I have some ideas for that).  Flying is not a right, but a privilege - one afforded to Americans who can afford the price of the ticket.  These privileges come with a cost beyond the sticker price, and with air travel, that hidden fee is a possible search.

Finally, and maybe what I find most ironic, is that the small-government advocate is essentially saying that we need more government regulations of air travel.  After all, someone (or something) would need to make the determinations about who gets onto the frequent flyer program, which travelers should raise flags, and so on.  The more specialized the criteria, the bigger the governing body is going to be.  And if security is given to the private sector, where each airline is responsible for security, you can expect even more delays, price increases (someone has to pay for this added security, and the corporations certainly aren't going to dig into their own pockets to pay for their customers safety; and a frequent traveler program would not be free either - the ability to get around searches would come with a price), and if history has taught us anything, worse treatment (after all, look at how well  the banking, housing and other corporations have behaved unregulated).

Of course, since Sen. Paul lands squarely in the "haves" camp, and none of this would concern him.   He would have the tax payers of Kentucky pay for any increases in flight cost, claiming that air travel is part of his job.  This is what I find most troubling about Sen. Paul's reaction to his search: it is baldly elitist.  His outrage over the search is not because of the indignity faced by the average American; it was that he, a Senator, was forced through these same indignities.  He's just a "normal" American, after all.

The Long Road Home

I'll say it: I don't mind flying.  I genuinely prefer flying over, say, driving cross country (though, that said, the right road trip can be a good time).  If the destination is important, and not the journey, I would prefer to fly.  Even short trips, say between Chicago and St. Louis, would be better off as a short flight.

A lot of people that I know, particularly in my family, would rather drive, citing lack of control as a problem.  It is true that when I fly, I have to leave when there is a flight available.  My entire trip is at the behest of the airline pilot (and of course, the weather), and nothing I can do will ever get me there earlier or later.  While this lack of control might bother some people, for me it removes any responsibility for the trip.  Because, really, if I can procrastinate on something, I will (for example, I'm writing this blog even though I need to go grocery shopping, do some translation work, and eat...).  

Besides the lack of responsibility, while I am travelling by plane (or train, even), I am left to do what I want.  It used to be nice to drive because I could blast my music and have a little rock-and-roll party while travelling.  But now that I have an iPod, I can do that while standing in line for customs (which I did, and I will talk more about in a minute).  I spend more time deciding what books to bring with me than I do on clothing for the trip. I have often forgotten to bring my toothbrush on trips, but I never forget to fully charge my DS.  For me, an eight hour plane ride (and leaving from here, the five hour train journey), is eight hours (plus five for the train) in which I can read and play video games without feeling bad about avoiding work.  

In short: unadulterated freetime.  And as a man who sets his own schedule, it's a luxury I am often, ironically, lacking.  See, when I have time off from my thesis, I pack it full of translation work looking to make financial ends meet.  Once I finish work, I get back on the thesis horse, and whip that pony until it collapses just past the finish line.  Repeat.  But on the plane and train, I can reasonably play Mario Kart (as reasonably as a 31-year-old man can play a game system for children) and read science fiction novels (as anyone familiar with my GoodReads account knows, I did, in fact, finish Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, quite happily).  

That said, I can see why people hate flying.  Even though I like flying, the noise of the trip can grate on my nerves, particularly on long flights.  I know that some people will play white noise to help them sleep, but a constant low hum, like someone is vacuuming in the apartment next to yours for eight straight hours, tends to put my nerves on edge.  I don't find constant white noise soothing; instead, it's like someone is sanding on my eardrums with a cheese grater made of jersey knit.  Sure, it's soft, but rub anything on anything for long enough, and it gets annoying.  

And, if you fly alone like I do, the Russian Roulette game of seat neighbors can be pretty obnoxious.  I've gotten pretty lucky, and in more than one flight, I've been the only one in my row.  But, just as often, my row neighbor, as he was in my Heathrow - Ohare flight, is a massive, vile person.  There are a lot of ways that people can be vile, and in this case, his vileness was not his own fault, but it still doesn't change the fact that he was vile.  I can take talkers (headphones) or even fat people (I don't take up much room, as is).  But what I can't take is someone who smells.  

I've never understood how they could have a smoking section on an airplane.  It's a circular system, sealed and with limited oxygen.  No matter how far away you get from someone smoking, you are eventually going to breathe the same air.  Even in first class, beyond that magic curtain that separates the airline royalty from us plebeians.  The same is true of someone who, riddled with a stomach bug, keeps crop dusting (thanks Kiernan) the entire coach class.  Granted, his illness was not his fault, and it did keep him in the bathroom for long stretches of time, including when we ate - all good things.  But when he came back, the sour smell of vomit, and the downright choking odor of...well...backdoor vomit was hard to take.  Couple that with his size, causing him to back into our row of two, pointing his still smoking gun at me, and I suddenly could sympathize with other people's hatred of flying.  

I was rewarded, I feel, for my calm sense of endurance by getting my own row of two on the ride back, blessedly with arm rests that went up, so I could curl into a little ball and lose myself in Mario Vs. Donkey Kong: Mini-Mario Madness.  Again, though, most blessings come with an asterisk: my seat was the last in the row and shared a wall with the toilet.  Luckily, only one person used that closet to dispose of what I could only assume was a dead badger, judging from the smells.  For most of the ride, that bathroom was too far away for people to think about.  

Another thing that helped was the harsh turbulence we experienced on the flight, which left a few scant minutes for people to get up and move around.  We were moving, of course; every time the plane suddenly dropped a few feet, or felt like it was snatched from the air by a curious Godzilla, I felt my heart stop and my stomach drop, as I am sure most everyone else did.  But no one dropped much out of their seats.  And since I was alone in my row, I was okay with that.  

A big complaint that people have with travelling is the lines: lines for security, lines for customs, lines to get on the plane, etc.  There is a lot of pre-boarding time spent in the airport, but I feel that, if prepared, these lines aren't too big a deal.  For one, don't try to smuggle things past security.  It's no surprise that you aren't allowed to bring liquids with you past security, so don't go and buy a six-dollar gallon of Coke to drink at the gate.  And don't pack your $40 bottle of hair product in the carry-on.  In fact, why do people pack for an entire trip in a carry-on when the flight goes overseas?  More than likely, international travelers have packed a bag.  What could you possibly need on the plane that takes up an entire suitcase?  I get that airlines sometimes lose bags, but there is nothing that you can't buy at your destination; while it might suck to have to shell out for a cheap toothbrush while my bags are located, I find that preferable to cramming a huge suitcase into the overhead bin, sometimes miles from my seat, causing me to fight upstream to get my bag once the plane lands. 

Generally, being well-prepared, I have gotten through all the lines, security and customs, fairly quickly.  I have all my forms ready, my laptops slides in and out of my bag easily, and I smile at everyone.  This time, though, landing in Heathrow, I was faced with an massive line for customs, using every queue line, and stretching up the stairs and down the hallway, this line took two hours to get through.  TWO HOURS!  But, again, it was something I had to do (and the flight go in early, as is), so I put in my headphones and had a little rock-and-roll party featuring Tom Waits, The Black Keys, and The Cold War Kids.  I have to admit, though, that waiting two hours to jump through the same hoops (I know that four months is a long time, but I a student.  Yes.  Aberystwyth.  Yes, in Wales.  Research PhD.  English Literature.  I am going to take the train from here.  Yes.  From Euston...etc.) I jump through each time I arrive was a little annoying. 

In the end, though, it was a small price to pay for a huge metal bird to get me safely across an expanse of water to a different continent.  Sadly, it'll be another four months until I get the chance to ignore some random strange next to me for eight hours as I watch three movies I never got a chance to see in theaters (though, on my Chicago-bound flight, the TVs were in the ceiling, and only played Monte Carlo...), play Golden Eye, or read whatever novel I'm currently enjoying.