Samhain 2008

Samhain. Nos Calan Graeaf. Summer's end. The first of winter's eve. The sun descends and the shadows move. Aflame, a chariot disappears beyond the horizon. A pale reflection of her departed brother, the huntress rules the night. Will we pack or prey?

Each day, we play different roles, sometimes changing by the hour. Magician, lover, warrior, king. Ingénue, vixen, amazon, priestess. Father, husband, son. Mother, maiden, crone. Each of us longs to be someone else at times, covets another's life. We wish to pack our cars and move away, to start again, only younger and wiser. Instead, we continue drinking at the masquerade, the music and clinking of glasses covering the agony stalking beyond the safety of our walls.

Tonight, we throw open the gates and pry away the mask. Stringers of adhesive cling to the emptiness we call our face. Peering behind it, we find our subconscious has become an ossuary filled with bones sorted and stacked by function. Deep within the catacombs, we are confronted by a wall of skulls. Dead end. No one gets out of here alive.

We build a bonfire and scribe our names to stones that we cast within to see who will come up missing in the morning. We pacify the tailor lest his silver needle weave a spell within our clothes. We ward ourselves with roses and crushed ivy. Prophetic dreams visit us in the silence of the night.

The deadliest gifts come in small and tidy packages, wrapped prettily with silver bows. Inside the most innocent of children, the bete noire lurks, eager to possess them. Each year, they run the streets in gangs, trapping us within our homes. We bribe them with foolish consistency lest they hobgoblin our distracted minds.

We scare ourselves because we want to be scared. Like a movie whose ending we can predict, or a game that children play, it teaches us and reminds us. Don't look behind every door. Don't wander through the maze alone. Fear the branches scratching at the window. Fear the shadows scurrying across the floor.

Tomorrow, we light the candles in remembrance our hallowed dead. Tonight, we fear the mischief of lesser souls until we know they are safely tucked away.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

The Die is Cast

Or should I say the ballot? By ten thirty this morning, Karen and I had arrived at the early voting station near where she works downtown. About thirty people were in line outside. Maybe another fifteen standing inside the door. And five more waiting for one of the two dozen privacy booths to open up.

There was a good mix of people in line, older, younger, men, women, mildly affluent and working class, all chatting together amicably, their only concern that someone else might cut in line. There was a security guard directing us, and poll workers counting us into the building. There was at least one family represented by three generations, the youngest not quite old enough to vote. Or read. Or hold the pen. Or really do much more than smile at all of us funny looking people and drool. She was a very cute baby out with her mother and grandmother for her first electoral experience. Always good to see them started young even if they won't remember.

Oh, since we're in Florida, perhaps some of you were looking for a different set of demographics? Let's just say that in line I felt like the shirt of a tuxedo attending a formal dinner, by which I mean as an ensemble we all looked good.

The line moved steadily. After they checked my ID, I felt like that dream where I'm back in school again taking a standardized test. Here's your black pen. Don't drop it, don't lose it, don't eat it. Don't take it with you. Here's a sheet to mark your answers. Fill in the bubble completely. Only color inside the lines. If you make a mistake, raise your hand to request a new paper. Don't open your booklet until you're standing in the voting booth. No talking. Keep your eyes on your own test. When you're finished, run it through the scanner to tally your final grade. If everything checks, you are free to go. You should receive your results in just under two weeks.

The only difference was they encouraged us to bring a crib sheet, like an open book SAT. Just beyond the Neutral Zone at the entrance a young woman representing one of the major parties was handing out a substitute in case you forgot your own.

There was an older man in front of me with a discernable eastern European accent. When asked at the registration desk whether he wanted his next ballot mailed to him, he replied firmly, "I don't believe in that. I would rather come down here and spend my time to make sure everything goes right." Everyone smiled at his answer, the poll workers and the patrons. On his way out, the party rep tried to hand him a "good government team" cheat sheet which he casually waved away saying he had already voted, "Only for the main man." "Oh, which one?" Whisper, whisper, mumble. "Oh, great! High five."

We had stickers in hand before eleven, twenty-five minutes tops, line and all. Karen and I made a morning of it, casting our ballots then going out to her favorite downtown deli where we compared notes over sandwiches. We had reached similar conclusions on most of the issues. On one or two, we cancelled each other out. Several local races were contests between incompetence and inexperience. Hard to know which way to lean there, toward the devil you know or the demon you don't. Either one could steal your lunch.

The Supervisor of Elections says we're on track for twenty-five thousand early voters at a paltry three locations. Counties with half our population have double that number of sites. Another hundred and seventy thousand citizens have requested mail-in ballots. Seventy thousand of those have already been returned. That out of six hundred and fifty thousand registered voters broken almost evenly between Democrats and Republicans with a quarter sitting it out in other parties. Historically, we have turnouts like our November highs, hovering near the upper seventies to low eighties. I'm curious whether we see a mini-heat wave this year.

Nothing left for us now but to sit back and enjoy the game. For those of you who know my politics and agree, I encourage you to come out and support my choices. For those who disagree, I encourage you to come out and nullify my vote. For those who are unsure where I stand, swing by the house; from there it should be obvious. Or the more clever among you can puzzle something out of this message.

Remember, it doesn't matter if you see politics like an organized sport or like a crapshoot lottery: you can't win if you don't play. So, get out there and vote. And best of luck to you and your candidates. I think we'll all need it soon.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Witnessing History

There is no joy in Boston; the mighty Nation has struck out.

Full disclosure: I am not a baseball fan. I played one year of Little League when I was six. You would have spotted me immediately, the one in right field, drifting off in his own little world to alleviate the boredom. My father could only hang his head in shame. When I was ten, my grandfather took me to a game at Fenway. A diehard fan, he tried to kindle the spirit within me, but only managed to water the seed of Boston losing. For twenty-five years, that was the only game I'd ever seen, the only one I ever needed to. Sure, I'd watch Boston in the playoffs, expecting heartbreak or worse. Until 2004, I wasn't disappointed.

Karen, on the other hand, is a dyed in wool fan. In high school, she and her friend used to score Red Sox games off the radio. Obviously, she grew up in a small town in western Mass. where there wasn't much else to do when the grass wasn't growing and there wasn't paint to dry. She crochets during games on TV now, while I am forced to watch or abandon them and read. When she travels, she tunes into games she wouldn't ordinarily see; she doesn't care who's playing.

When St. Petersburg expanded with the Devil Rays, she dragged me to a few games. I couldn't even tell you who they played. The Reds? The Royals? The Orioles? After a game we went to last year, I said to her, I think I'd only go back to see the Rays play Boston. When we saw the opening game this year, I amended that. Did I say when the Rays play Boston? I meant when the Rays play Boston in the playoffs. I figured that was a safe bet that would hold me for a hundred years.

So how did I end up at game 7 of the ALCS? It pays to have friends. Or, in my case, to have married someone who does.

Yesterday started with plans for the day, cooking in the morning, reading and napping in the afternoon. I needed a haircut. Had I known what was coming, it would have been a mohawk. At least a back-hawk in my case. In the evening, we planned to watch both of Tampa Bay's games, the Rays and the Bucs, football and baseball, picture in picture, in head to head competition across the dial. The only decision was which one to watch on the small screen and which one on the smaller.

Then, the call came from our friend and neighbor up the road. She started life as a Brewers fan, so we were somewhat kindred spirits. Though we haven't quite convinced her to embrace her inner Buccaneer as yet. That's a work in progress. (And now I know I will never see another ticket in my life, even to a minor league game in Guatemala). She scored tickets through the lottery, and had some extras. Would we like to go? Let me pass the phone to Karen, who proceeded to beat me about the head and shoulders for not immediately saying, YES!

First thing I did was call my aunt in Braintree. She's an old Boston Braves fan, so had been rooting for the Rays from the onset, even before the All-Star break, even when we went to Boston for the final, regular series. When I told her we were going to the game, the first thing she asked was if I had gotten her tickets. I'm convinced that had I told I had four, she and her husband would have been at Logan lining up a flight as soon as a cab could have gotten them there. But, alas, there were only two. She anointed me her good luck charm and sent me out to win.

The next thing we did was head out to Sports Authority and buy some Rays paraphernalia. Karen had converted her loyalties to the Devil Rays when they first appeared. Until this year, she'd had the luxury of rooting for both teams, except when they met, and even then she could hedge her bets. But the only marker she had was an original Devil Rays pin. So she bought us a couple caps, just to make our loyalties clear. And for those who think she might be a fair weather fan, she listened to the early Rays games on the radio while crafting stained glass in the garage. And we actually have more to do down here than watch rust spread across our cars.

Did I mention I'm not a fan? Ok, that was before I saw the light, even if was only the blinding light of a baseball drifting toward light-banks ringing the catwalks in our dome. Now that I've entered the temple and been indoctrinated with the high mass, there's no turning back.

Driving toward stadium, we saw the signs for parking escalate like bids at an auction. $10, $15, do I hear $20? The official lots are full. Sold for $30 to the lot across the street. We passed them all by and parked where Karen works a mile out, and headed for the field. About halfway there, people started gathering like runoff from a hard rain that forms rivulets then a stream and finally a mighty river, some fifty thousand strong. The Sox were well supported but didn't outnumber the Rays fans for a change. Unlike the Fenway Faithful, the Rays fans were laid back, grilling, joking, milling about the parking lot. There was no real tension after the disaster of game 5, or the disappointment of game 6.

We met our friend outside the main gate. She inspected Karen closely for any evidence of red, however well hidden, ready to raise the price or scalp her ticket if she found even a hint of it except her hair. Blue shirt, blue jeans, Rays hat, Rays pin; she was clean. A quick exchange of cash for tickets and we were in. She had gotten two blocks of four seats. We wouldn't be together, she, her fiancée and another couple would be in one block, us and a couple we hadn't met in another, just outside the foul pole on the first base line, about 30 rows up, with a perfect view of the Rays' bullpen.

We got to our seats an hour early. The section was half empty. The Red Sox were at batting practice. When the groundskeepers pulled the screens when they finished, a chorus of boo's echoed around the stadium. Apparently, the Red Sox Nation had instructed the our fans on proper etiquette for greeting an opposing team. A cheer went up when Tampa Bay took the field for their final warm-ups. We watched our pitcher, Garza. He seemed relaxed, as though it was just another start. The outfielders looked unconcerned, not too loose and joking with the crowd, but not intimidated either. Confident, not cocky or cowed.

By eight, our section had filled. We looked at the people around us, all Rays fans, a good initial sign. The four of us started glancing around tentatively, trying to make those eye-contact connections with total strangers with whom you will spend the next four or five hours of your life. The man and his wife who was legally blind, the guy and his buddy completely into the game, the father and his teenage daughter directly in front of us, the woman with her husband and son on the other side of me, the older couple behind us. We were all uncertain at first, unsure whether our support of the Rays was enough to link us. Then the unifying factor appeared behind us.

No, not card carrying members of the Red Sox Nation, not the Fenway Faithful on a holiday from the arctic cold. These were a pair of uber-Rays fans, a cross between Braveheart and Bozo the Clown, blue and white face paint, neon blue wigs, white sunglasses, and horns, drunk as skunks pillaging the cider mash. Did I mention the horns? I can still hear them rattling my right eardrum. All game long, whomever was batting, us or them, whether appropriate or not, like off-key trumpeters at a Roman gladiatorial game.

They started by hitting on the forty year-old woman with her husband beside me as though she were twenty-five, ringing her neck in plastic flowers and telling her she'd been "lei'ed." "Was it as satisfying for you?" That was all it took. Our loose confederation was now a section, our collective attention directed at wishing those horns would silence and that pair would go away.

The stadium announcer asked us to make some noise as TV coverage began. The meter spiked to somewhere between an amplified guitar a foot away at full volume and a plane on an airport runway, all cheers and cowbells, clapping and horns. Ok, for that moment, we were glad to have the horns. The feeling wouldn't return until the end of the game. The stage was set, the curtain rising, the occupants of the erstwhile Thunderdome ready for a classic confrontation: Two teams enter, one team leaves.

Our enthusiasm was silenced in the first inning when Boston's second batter smacked a solo homerun into the crowd beyond the left field wall. The Red Sox fans couldn't resist standing up and waving the crowd to silence as though the outcome were pre-ordained, a move at least one of them would come regret several innings later. The homer was followed by a walk. It beginning to look like a long night. But we escaped the inning without any crooked numbers. At least there was solace in that.

For the first three innings, our batters looked much like they had the previous game, so focused on knocking one out of the park that they forgot everything starts with a base hit. Still, we slowly regained our exuberance, rising to our feet and cheering each time a Boston batter garnered a pair of strikes. I haven't done so much standing and sitting since the last time I was at a Catholic service. There was even some praying, though most of what I heard was for the guys behind us not to spill their beers or hurl. Those damned horns kept blaring, one in my left ear, one in my right. The rows in front of us kept glancing back with an combination of annoyance and pity. One guy tried to buy the horns off of them for a couple beers apiece. They thought about that one a moment, but declined. Another whispered they only had an inning or two left in them before one of them passed out. Midway through the third, one of the guys came crashing down between me and the woman next to me, fortunately without his beer. "I fell down," was all he could think to say as we levered him back up.

I just focused on my Zen, like Garza, concentrating on one pitch at a time. For a shaky start, he kept racking up the K's. One an inning, sometimes two. By the end of his night, nine were on the board.

Things turned our way in the fourth. Between innings, a Rays fan with a Boston accent came over and offered the smurf brothers a quick $20. All they had to do was go up one section to where a Boston fan was sitting by his "daughta" and blast them for a full inning. Someone else would come and show them exactly where. A Jackson flashed and quickly disappeared into one of the conspirator's blue pockets, then these two marched off like a Sousa band redone in plastic, men on a mission. Had we known it was that easy, we would have taken up a collection. Later we almost did.

Turns out that was probably the best $20 this guy ever spent. We kept one eye on the game, and the other on our reluctantly adopted cohorts. There they were, two sections back, right on the foul line, blazing away at a couple of red shirts, who at least initially seemed to take it well. Then the Rays started chipping at Boston. Iwamura singled, then Pena on a fielder's choice, sacrificing Iwamura instead of himself. But Longoria whacked a double into right, bring home our first run. We are all up and high-fiving, building the bonds of camaraderie with our neighbors. Boston hasn't had much to cheer about in a while.

The boys in blue and white keep earning their pay, blowing their horns through the entire fifth on spec. The Boston fans still seemed to be taking it well, chatting with them between innings. Then came the bottom of the fifth. Aybar singled, Baldelli drove him in. Two more on base and it looked like Boston's pitcher was breaking. Francona took a trip out to the mound, but thankfully left him in. He escaped the inning without further damage.

In the top of the sixth, we glance back toward the two-man horn section in time to see security swarming toward the Boston fans like a herd of angry bulls to a red cape. Who knows what happened, other than Boston started losing. One guy decides to take swing at the security guard. The St. Pete cop backing him up set a hand on security's shoulder and shakes his head. He makes a quick gesture to a monster in security blue one row down who distracts the Boston fan while the cop moves in. Next thing we see is red-shirt Boston emerge in handcuffs doing the walk of shame toward a far exit. His friend fades away with him. We relax, thinking our trumpeters have just scored prime seats for the duration. Apparently the Rays relaxed, too, with a lackluster sixth and a low pitch count retirement of the heart of our order. Not what we needed to continue Lester's slide.

Top of the seventh and our frat boys returned triumphantly, hovering in their seats briefly before taking a victory lap around the nearby sections. Garza starts fraying at the edges but gets out of the inning unscathed. Our mascots settle just as we come up to bat. Now people are shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. The guy in front of me who was betting they would fade in the fifth takes it back, saying they are thoroughbreds much to his surprise. With no Boston targets in sight, they start in on a Pittsburg Steelers shirt two rows down. We ignore them and pay attention to the task at hand. Aybar homers to left on a full count. Everyone rises to their feet. Cow bells are ringing, horns are blaring, people are screaming and chipping the railing paint as they pound anything handy against it like a drum.

The tensest moments come in the 8th. Boston up with one out, and Maddon is going through relief pitchers like a fan through a bag peanuts. They advance man after man. One of our would-be Bravehearts passes out and lands on the older couple behind us. They prop him back up one last time. We spend the inning on our feet, which turns into the remainder of the game. Boston loads the bases. It's looking like a repeat of Thursday night only with less of a cushion. The guys behind us start doing beer bongs through their horns. The girl in front of us gives up on standing and starts texting on her phone. But we get out of it, how I'll never know. That's when we get the inkling that winning is a possibility.

Mid-inning, and I look up to see 11:11 on the scoreboard clock. There's a free wish for you superstitious, baseball types. You know what I was thinking. Karen gets "lei'ed" from behind with blue plastic flowers in the form of an apology from one of our aspirant Viking twins for clocking her with his horn. This after the couple we were with had stolen the horn's bell briefly before giving it back "this time" as he blew it in her ear. By now, no one cares about their antics. We are on the brink of history and they are one of us, horns, obnoxiousness and all. Our batters do nothing to advance our cause.

It all comes down to Boston in the ninth. Everyone is on their feet, cheering every strike as though it were the final out. A lead-off walk does nothing to deter us. The Rays are relaxed, doing their jobs. Victory is in the air. One out accompanied by cheers and high-fives, then two. It begins to feel inevitable. A hit toward our second baseman who tags second and the place erupts. The red of Boston trickles out, bleeding toward the exits. We hang around cheering until a round of handshakes with some of our newfound friends who then head off to find cigars. When I turn to the older couple behind us, he high-fives me and says, "we survived them," pointing to where our face-painted pair had disappeared.

And our two mascots? He and his buddy were bragging all night that they have to be at work at seven a.m. I'm betting they are having a long, cruel morning. Though I bet they say it's worth it.

The walk back to the car was briefly tense when a Boston fan didn't know when to shut up, and one of our larger fans was just drunk enough to make him, held back only by his smaller friend steering him away. Not good losers, this Red Sox Nation. At the corner, the firemen are all outside by the engines waiting for what they know is coming. There are cruisers strobed in red and blue at every intersection. The mostly mildly celebratory crowd peels off in threes and fours toward their vehicles. Alone now, we pass a knot of Fenway Faithful hanging by their trucks, but they seem more interested in analysis and commiseration than in us. The last person we pass is a local woman walking toward us who spots our hats and starts a celebration, for both the Rays and the Bucs, who also won that night.

We make it back to the car without incident. At every red light on the way home we are serenaded by car horns and cow bells as St. Petersburg celebrates its first pennant and its first trip to the series.

Of all the playoff games to see, I think this was perhaps the best. We knew something would be decided, and yet had more potential victories to look forward to if we won rather than the mild tinge of regret that accompanies knowing that it's over even with a victory. We're all smiles this morning knowing we have more to come.

It's still hard to believe it was not the Yankees, not the Indians, but the Rays who ended the Red Sox's comeback streak. Ok, Boston fans, I know you remember the line from years of repetition. Repeat after me: Maybe next year.

I kid because I love. Any other year and we would say the same.

Who knew baseball could be so much fun.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Courage

I am Edward Morgan and I approved this message.

Today, I venture into politics. If that makes you uncomfortable, stop reading here and delete this message. But before you do, understand that my intent is not to influence the way you vote. I am not here to define my politics, I am not here to defend them. I am not here to debate. I am not calling you to arms to support one party or the other. I am not here to persuade you that my thoughts and understanding are any better than your own. They most certainly are not. By definition they can't be, not for you. At the moment, it is the tone of our national conversation that concerns me, not its composition. The arrangement, not the orchestra.

Over the past several years, I have been confronted by people on the left and the right. I have been called a traitor for the candidate I support. I have been called a mindless drone for pointing out the other candidate isn't always wrong and, in some things, actually better. I have been told that I have no right to vote because I wasn't in the military. I have been called un-American for either way I see the war. I have been told the 1st Amendment doesn't apply to me because my religion isn't practiced by the majority. I have been called irrational because I hold those same beliefs. I have been informed that the people I claim on the census are nothing but drunks so deserve whatever destitution befalls them. Some of this by family, some by friends and colleagues, otherwise reasonable people, not anonymous operatives for one party or the other.

This must end.

I hear cries from both sides to adopt the tactics of the opposition, meet fire with fire. This is the model of failed states around the world, countries with names few people recognize in places few people can point to on a map with borders no one agrees upon or controls. It is a policy of revolution breeding revolution under which the majority of people suffer and only dictators and demagogues flourish. It is the politics of divisiveness, the politics of demonization. The politics of personal destruction. The politics of fear.

This must end.

Machiavelli says it is better to be feared than loved. Fear is a powerful emotion, more powerful than greed, more powerful than hope. It is far easier to incite a mob to violence than inspire one to build or talk one into cutting down a noose. It is easier to sketch the world in charcoal than to paint it in vivid color. In the real world, even shadows have color reflected by the light. We prefer black and white because it is easier to distinguish contrast. We don't have to think, just react when a given line is crossed. It is the politics of laziness.

In an environment of fear, it becomes too easy to rely on someone else's judgment, to dig in and retrench when someone violates our principles. It is easy to blame the other side, whichever side that is. "They" always started it; "they" always escalated it. "We" have no choice but to respond or appear weak. "We" have been maligned and have no other recourse than to fight.

This must end.

This trend has continued until the most vile slurs and epithets are now shouted at political rallies: Sexist, bigot, baby-killer, terrorist, anti-Semite, communist, Nazi. They culminate with a simple, two word phrase: "Kill him." That utterance marks the end of any rational democracy. It is the voice of anarchy, not the language of impassioned debate. First it is shouted, then whispered, in a theater, in a railroad station, at an exposition, in a book depository, beyond a balcony, in a kitchen just off a ballroom floor.

This. Must. End.

At some point we, the people, have to say enough. We don't have to agree. In fact, we rarely will. Each of us has our own opinions, our own priorities regarding the direction we think the country needs to go. Different experiences shaped each of us and what we value. Our perspective on these experiences is unique. Some have more impact than others, but each has no less value, not to the individual. We gain, not lose, when we pause a moment to consider and draw a breath.

My grandfather's grandfather lied about his age to sign up with the Grand Army of the Republic during the American Civil War. I don't know why he joined, whether he was full of belief and righteous indignation, whether he was full of a childish concept of glory, whether he thought it would be an adventure, whether he thought he had something to prove, whether he thought he could make his name. I don't know what regiment he marched with, he lived with, he fought with, he watched perish. His service ribbon does not say. It only says he joined, he served, he did not die. He returned home a different man, a man who drank, a man who suffered nightmares. A man who died, haunted, I am told, by the history that had unfolded around him of which he would not speak.

Our experiences change us.

My uncle, really my father's cousin, was seventeen when World War II came to this country. I don't know why he entered the army. I don't know whether he chose his duties or someone chose them for him. During that war, he tended the troops who had been injured and transported back to England. There were no med-evacs, no helicopters, no trauma teams standing by to treat the wounded. Antibiotics were cutting edge medicine, as was something resembling modern anesthesia. Day after day, he witnessed the only constant in war, the parade of wounded and maimed returning from the battlefield. He helped the ones he could recover. He has never described his experiences to me directly, only talked about the useless nature of war.

Our experiences change us.

A friend's mother managed an apartment complex in a public housing neighborhood known as "Little Vietnam." It was at heart of a police no-go zone where you regularly heard gunshots on a Friday night. Cruisers might roll up late or never. If they did, they were as likely to hassle the innocent as the guilty. Even knowing that, she drew a line in the sand against the drug dealers in her building, telling them they were not welcome. These men reacted first with intimidation, then with vandalism and finally with threats against her family. From that point forward, she kept a pistol within easy reach of her bed. When I knocked on her door after dark, I knew to stay in the light until I heard her voice, knew that each time I saw the curtain move, there was a gun behind the window.

Our experiences change us.

A woman I know had an abortion when she was fifteen. I didn't find out until many years later. We grew up together, but were not close at the time. I don't know the details of her pregnancy, don't know the details of her relationship with the father. I don't know the details of her decision other than she felt pressured by her family. All I know is that she had chosen a name she still remembers. Thirty years later, I can still hear the anguish and regret in her voice when she recalls that moment in her life.

Our experiences change us.

Those experiences run across the current fault lines of American politics, war, gun control, abortion. Hot button issues where people make snap judgments based on pure emotion. Whether I agree or disagree with the conclusions each of those individuals drew from their experience, I cannot attack them. I can only wonder how being in their position would have altered my life, my beliefs. How can I invalidate an experience I did not have, a memory that I do not share? Should I demonize them for what they learned from a life different from my own? Intolerance breeds intolerance as surely violence begets violence, a outcome as old as obsidian knives, as inevitable as moonrise.

Everyone remembers September 11th, where they were, what they were doing when they heard. I remember April 19th. My wife was on vacation from her job with the federal government. We had slept in that morning. When we got up, we turned on the television to check the news. What I saw was a gutted and smoking federal building, almost identical to the one near the office where my wife worked downtown. The image left an indelible mark upon my psyche. That could have been my city, my neighbors, my wife. All because an individual, a veteran who had sworn to defend this country and uphold its laws, had honed a grudge like a well-stropped razor, then slashed out against the government thinking he was reclaiming an eye for an eye. For me, that morning in 1995 revealed the natural terminus of the politics of hate.

Our experiences change us.

We will take back the tools of democracy not by electing one candidate instead of the other, but by repudiating the tactics of fear, the tactics of hate, by insisting on decency despite our differences, not just for the candidate we support but for the one we don't. Courage is often confused with combat. Courage isn't fighting for something we believe in; courage is standing up to fear.

As most of you know, I spent several months last year hanging around a chemo ward. It is a grim place despite the comfortable chairs, the beautiful view, the kind and helpful nurses. It is a place occupied by men and women, some young, some old, some outwardly healthy, some not, some on their first visit, some on a repeat itinerary. That place isn't about fighting, it isn't about winning; it is about living. The ones who complete that journey, and not everyone does, come out different than they started, sometimes subtly, sometimes radically. The experience shapes them, changes them. Some who don't see the other side show more courage than some who do. The ones who emerge aren't called "victors," they aren't called "winners;" they are called "survivors."

Our experiences change us.

On its journey, our country has survived a President who ignored Supreme Court rulings when they did not suit him. We have survived a President who suspended the writ of habeas corpus. We survived our government publicly blacklisting citizens because of their political affiliation. We survived our government imprisoning citizens based on their ethnicity. We have survived stripping people of their rights and land based solely on their race. We have survived buying and selling individuals as though they were commodities. None of this happened within the past fifty years. We will most certainly survive either of these Senators being elected.

You are not racist if you don't vote for a one candidate; you are not sexist if you do not vote for another. Unless, of course, race or gender are the reason for your decision; then you might have a problem. You are not a terrorist if you don't support a certain candidate. You are not a torturer if you don't endorse another. Anyone who tells you differently is trying to manipulate you. That road ends in totalitarianism, pick your flavor, left or right. In practical execution, they are difficult to distinguish.

Over the summer, roughly half of Zimbabwe, a country of some 12 million people, went out to vote for an opposition candidate. They didn't have the luxury of a secret ballot. They knew their government would never allow their candidate to win, despite public assurances promising a free and fair election. They went out despite knowing from experience that they risked being beaten, risked having their livelihood taken, their property stolen, their homes burned. They voted anyway. These weren't people steeped in centuries of democracy. They weren't people ready to take back their government by any means, at any cost. These were ordinary men and women, just like you and me. They knew what was coming and cast their vote anyway, in most cases in an orderly and peaceful manner, at least where their government allowed it. That, my friends, is courage.

Whatever your politics, I hope you have the courage to defend even those you disagree with from slander and from hate. In the coming election, I hope you have the courage to vote your convictions rather than someone else's fears.

I am Edward Morgan and I approved this message.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Storm Watching

Each morning for days or weeks, the ritual has been the same. Rise at 4 a.m. and check the models, the Nikkei, the Footsie, the DAX, the CAC. Where is the center of circulation now, over Europe, over Asia, headed back toward the United States? What is the downward pressure on the Dow?

The economic forecasts sound like symptoms of a global pandemic: liquidity, inflation, stagnation, Asian crisis, Japanese malaise. It's too late to reinforce the mortgage supporting our home, too late to install shutters of bonds across the windows, too late to bury caches of cash beneath our mattress. We will have to manage with the stocks we have on hand. We track the numbers like coordinates, trying to read the futures like tea leaves lingering in the bottom of a cup or tarot cards spread purposefully across the kitchen table.

The storm approaches rapidly, intensifying quickly as predicted by ancient oracles named Opal and Charley. Technology collapses and the lights go out on the NASDAQ. We light candles from the S&P as short trading is suspended. The storm rages, pounding a hail in letters against the windows, LIBOR, FDIC, P/E, GDP, FMOC. Outside, Washington Mutual saplings snap off at the roofline while hundred-year oaks crack in half from rot or become completely uprooted. Lehman Brothers, Morgan-Stanley, AIG. Can our cherished elms of Main Street be far behind?

Like water, the markets seek their own level, exploiting any uncaulked crack or crevice as they descend. Like storm-driven rain, they flood toward the basement as they run down interior walls, collapsing the bone-white tower we've constructed floor by floor. As each layer of resistance pancakes, we shudder and pray the next support level holds as the Fed shores up its bracings. From pulpit and soapbox and tree stump, our leaders seek to assuage us with readings from the Book of Katrina: "...and, yea verily, none among us was endowed with divine foreknowledge to know whither this storm would strike."

Outside the Great Temple of lower Manhattan, a pitchfork-toting mob gathers to ignite oil-soaked stacks of corporate paper as makeshift torches, threatening to set the structure further ablaze without casting a single pail of water. Do they not realize, or just not care, that half the population huddles inside the sanctuary, mostly elderly, their parents and grandparents? That their communities can no longer bond a promise to repair their crumbling infrastructure, or raise fresh levies of frontline defenders to combat their other, now forgotten mortal fear? That master craftsmen can no longer employ their trades? They content themselves with prying up chunks of broken roadbed to smash the plate glass of other people's houses, as though their own aren't constructed of the same frangible framework of debt.

We cower inside our shelter praying the roof stays down, praying the windows don't bow to the eternal pressure, praying the panicked mob doesn't batter through the door. Why do we always look to the Almighty for salvation from any man-created crisis? Is God fully invested in the market? If so, what would Jesus own? Is that his wrath I hear overturning the money markets in the Temple, or just a tornado peeling back the rafters? Should I dive for the basement and pull a tempered sheet of Swiss gold over my head until the storm abates? Paralyzed by indecision, I clutch a rosary to redeem my financial sins, counting out the beads of my losses one by one as I recite the liturgy: There is no God but Wall Street, and Warren Buffet is its profit.

As if heeding my beseechments, the winds pause momentarily and the markets draw a single breath. Have we found the bottom or is that a second wall of wind and water darkening the horizon? As we wait for the all-clear siren to return to our investments, stormchasers prepare to spin up an H-60 to survey the homeless devastation of stilts and foundations and free-running breaches from the air. In the months ahead, experts will dissect the footage in minute, statistical detail to determine whether retrenchment has spawned recession. Economic psychologists are left to assess whether depression has poisoned the general mood.

Regardless of the outcome, the sun shines brightly this morning. Outside, one neighbor tends his lawn as he does every Wednesday. Another oversees the pavers being set to replace her torn-up driveway. The mail arrives with the same assortment of useless advertisements as any other day. Men and women head to work in the morning, children to school, the elderly out on their walks. Recent rains have revived the grass out front. Hibiscus and alamanda briefly bloom, providing a final splash of yellow, white and orange before the dun of winter sets in. Blue jays and mockingbirds flutter and squawk as they renew their annual, territorial war. Signs of recent excavations to conceal acorns dot the garden as squirrels continue their autumn preparations just like any other year.

Our youngest cat chases a feather on a string for hours before rediscovering the real birds sitting in the birdbath just outside the window, just as we cast our gaze back toward our portal on the real world instead studying the artificial glass that reveals only prophecies of doom from Bloomberg and CNBC. As mourning doves settle back on their perches, we are tempted to interpret their doleful cooing as lamentations for everything we've lost, forgetting that, just as their white brethren, they serve as joyful reminders that all storms pass and life continues uninterrupted just within our reach.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III