God and the Homunculus are both dead…

In Descartes’ Error, Dr. Antonio R. Damasio strongly suggested “the homunculus” is not only dead, but that he never existed at all – anyone who saw Men In Black would know this without needing to wade through his book.

 

The man-in-the-head gives a last gasp, and dies…

The genetics-focused folks involved in various discussion threads at 23andMe would probably agree with Dr. Damasio to a large extent – they seem certain that each of our bodies and minds are merely the subjects of predetermined DNA coding. With our final destiny having been predetermined, perhaps even the Calvinists would follow along (God rolled the dice a long time ago, don’t cha know…).

I wonder whether the man-in-the-head is truly dead. He still seems to be talking to and with me — how else would I come to put his words into this blog?

 

America: Where Too Much is Not Enough

Red and yelllow, black and white…

Notwithstanding the decades since last singing/hearing the song, I still have positive associations with, “Jesus Loves the Little Children”. I relate my associations to being phenotypically different from not only those who raised me, but also those I was raised among. Of all the possibilities, the one that dear old mom (my adoptive mother) was certain of was that I was definitely Not black. When I heard those words I did not realize how important non-blackness was — I was so young I did not realize how important “race” would turn out to be in my life.

Life has its little ironies…

Given the advances in DNA research, I recently discovered a few things. At least by way of various statistical inferences:

I am red.

I am yellow.

I am white and, yes,

even a little “black”.

The NDN Test

The test was not long. It only lasted about one hour. I don’t recall any details about man who administered it, but he was supposed to be an “Indian specialist”. He was contacted through a county official and I was given the impression he was an employee of a state or federal agency but for all I know, he may have come from the planet Mars.

I still don’t know if I passed or failed, but later on I was told that either my hair or I were to go away…

(If you happen to know the man on the right side, please post a comment so I can follow up with you — although I was there, I would still like to find out exactly what had been going on.)

In an Outpatient Surgery Waiting Room Thinking (Never call a White Man “White”)

Waiting for my wife undergoing an outpatient procedure, I picked up the magazine lying on the seat next to me. It was unlike most magazines that languish in waiting rooms. It was a current issue, one not yet mutilated by nervous, restless page-turning fingers.

Its oversize, glossy cover page beckoned – I wasn’t going anyplace. I opened it.

In it was a list of fifty-five private schools serving preschoolers though the 12^th grade in the Detroit Metro area. Annual tuition for many was around the $10k mark. Several went to the $20k zone. The highest was $45,750. One had “free” tuition, related, no doubt, to its status as a publicly funded “school of choice” and a student-teacher ratio of 30:1. The lowest student-teacher ratio was 4:1. I admit I did not do the math, but guess that the average ratio would be 13:1.

I suspect the schools with relatively low tuition and a medium-to-high student-teacher ratio are not so different from many public schools except, of course, for extremely important differences unrelated to the schools themselves. Republican Presidential Candidate Mitt Romney had attended one of them

Does that tidbit suggest anything to you? Does it suggest that the students attending the schools and the parents who send them there are from.

relatively wealthy households – not “rich”, but better off than the average?

homes where early healthcare, including prenatal care and good nutrition are “normal”?

“safe” communities with low potential for violence being done to them?

environments in which parents or role models are fairly well educated or highly value “education”?

backgrounds involving early language exposure by way of being read to, learning the alphabet and identifying words (if not outright reading) and listening to adult discussions?

Having lived in the area more than three decades, I have personal knowledge of the listed schools. I know individuals who graduated from several. One stepson, in fact, attended one (my wife and I had given both boys the choice of attending a private or a public school). I assure you the foregoing characteristics are accurate, but I wanted to be certain that personal knowledge (or was it bias?) had not blinded me.

Thinking I might have jumped to conclusions, I took a second look. I took a third and fourth look. Then I really started “reading”, perhaps in a way a truly literate individual would read, and found that the magazine, its contents, even the place I found it told a very American story – a story even less pleasant than my personal knowledge suggested.

The list of schools took up a single page. It was amidst “personal interest” articles about topics dreadfully interesting to some. It was between pages filled with alluring ads for cosmetic surgery and dentistry. It was tucked between full-page photographs showing fine jewelry for sale – even a one million dollar bra made of gold and diamonds. Trendy and “discovered” restaurants? You betcha. And, of course, scores of photos, ubiquitous for magazines of its genre, showing the “shakers and doers” attending events about town. All the “good life” items were packed into a single magazine waiting, in full resplendent color, to be “read”.

The story is two-fold. The first is entirely familiar: In this land of opportunity, you have the right to attend any school you want where you can get a great education and then move forward to live a life of success if you come from “money”. The money issue, starkly obvious, is seldom missed. The second element in the you-can-get-goodies equation, so very familiar it doesn’t seem to exist, almost shot right by me. Almost…

My fourth reading was to make sure the other element was “real”. That I wasn’t full of it. That I was/am, in fact, “literate”. Again, I must admit I did not do the math.

I did not count the individuals shown in the ads, interest articles, or photos of shakers and doers. The math would make little difference because it was so apparent, so natural, so “normal” that even as the Doubting Thomas that I am, I almost misread what I had seen

The story fully read required seeing and appreciating an eerie whiteness. One with few tokens. I placed the magazine back where I had found it, as I gazed off with unseeing eyes he spoke to me…

I noticed him earlier, sitting in that uncomfortable closeness of a room where patients and family members wait, some to be called in for a procedure, others for a loved one to escape from whatever medical indecencies were being carried out. Given my frame of mind, thoughts whirling, I found his words quite jarring.

He was older than I. He wore a cap with “Veteran of the Korean War” emblazoned on it. “I love this country”, he said, “It’s the greatest country in the world.”

I bit my tongue.

Over the next ninety minutes or so we talked, he and I. We talked about a number of things. He had taken a trip to Korea, Vietnam, China and other south-eastern Asian countries a few years before. He let me know Koreans and the Vietnamese are, “Beautiful people. They love Americans.” He thought the Chinese not at all pleasant, and he expressed doubts about the Japanese as well

In addition to being a Korean War vet, he had been a suburban cop. Although I had worked for a different city, We had at a small degree of commonality. We knew some of the same politicians, area judges and prosecuting attorneys.

He mentioned one of the narcs from the city I had worked for – perhaps a probing test question – I identified that person by their full name and he nodded, apparently satisfied of my bona fides. “I think he was a Mexican.” I corrected him because that narc and I had discussed this issue decades earlier – his heritage was that of Hawaiian Islander. “He knew his stuff. I give credit to him for that.”

He talked about “them”, the multi-generational welfare freeloaders. I pointed out that the majority of aid recipients were whites who live in rural areas.

We talked about a number of things. We had a degree of commonality. Color was not one of either.

He again said, “I love this country. It’s the greatest country in the world.”

I bit my tongue.

I made no reference to the suburb that man had worked for. A city where “NIWAD” stood for “Nigger in Warren After Dark”, a justification for certain types of police actions. I made no reference to what was perfectly, starkly clear. I kept my mouth shut, because I have learned over the course of my life some simply do not want the obvious pointed out to them, and that to do so prompts some to become quite violent.

I sat there. In an outpatient surgery waiting room. Thinking (Never call a White Man “White”).

My Body Knows: Being an American Involves Nationalism

BS in Criminal Justice in hand, I had several short-term before being hired as a Public Safety Officer. One involved plain-clothes security work. For that job, the hiring process involved undergoing a polygraph examination.

In case you do not know, polygraph examinations are carefully staged because the theory behind the test is that certain physiologic reactions are not under conscious control, and that measurements of respiratory and pulse rates together with galvanic skin reactions reflect the stresses of “lying”. Every attempt is made to ask narrowly tailored questions having a single “true” answer, and all questions are answered with a Yes or No. A sudden physiologic change is said to indicate whether one is lying.

Immediately after the test, the polygraphist and those who interviewed me for the job told me I had passed. They were, however, very curious about the following question, and my answer to it:

Q: Are you an American?

A: Yes.

Based on the fact I had been born in the USA and therefore a “status” citizen, they were unable to figure out why my body had a “violent” (their word) reaction when I answered in the affirmative. They asked if I knew of any reason why my body responded the way it had. Had the job involved national security I am certain I would not have been hired, but since the issue of national identity was not a critical issue for them, I was hired.

More than thirty years having passed. I still remember exactly what went through my mind at the time. The “T” below reflects the thought I had during in the split-second between the “Q” and my “A”:

Q: Are you an American?

T: No. For all I know I am a space alien.

A: Yes.

I find the matter amusing. Others do not…

A number of individuals who self-identify as “Americans”  have told that I must be an American (typically long after they have asked me “What are you?”). They become extremely irate when I attempt to explain exactly why I am assuredly not. Some go to the extent of applying rather negative terms to me and my existence in  response. Their responses seem directly tied to nationalism, a point that neatly slips past their consciousness.

I find this quite unsettling.

An Odd (Yet Familiar) Occurrence

I had met her about 30 years ago, back when she was an ER Nurse and I was a Paramedic. After we became attorneys, we occasionally crossed paths when attending depositions in connection with asbestos litigation in the Detroit area. Due to changes in my practice, I had not seen her for years.

I received an assignment to cover the deposition of an asbestos plaintiff and after arriving at the building where it was to be conducted, located the designated conference room. I entered that room and saw her sitting at one of the tables. I sat next to her and, as old acquaintances do, we began updating each other on what had been going on in our lives.

Engrossed, I did not notice the room filling up. As my conversation began winding down I saw 30 or more attorneys present. About three-quarters were male. None was African-American.

I took a look at who had sat down at my other side – He looked quite out-of-place.

It wasn’t his attire.

His well-pressed (and no doubt starched) light-blue long-sleeved cotton shirt, dark, sharply creased slacks and polished shoes were well within the summer dress code for this type of deposition. Semi-business/semi-casual attire was the norm, “full uniform” suits were acceptable if someone had come from or was later heading to a significant event, and casual dress was fine – even outrageous golfing togs were fine if one would be golfing afterward.

…and yet his clothes were wrong…

It wasn’t his demeanor.

Given the room’s layout, a smiling not across the would be normal and most conversations were between individuals seated next to one another. He was within the norms, nodding, smiling and speaking with others.

…and yet he acted wrong…

I knew he was out-of-place within the split-second it took me to look at him. I exchanged a quick nod and smile with him, and finished talking with my acquaintance.

As may be the case when two strangers strike up a conversation in a group setting where there is no connection except for the main purpose of the gathering, our eyes may have met a bit too long or there may have been uncomfortable, and therefore untenable social pause – I remain uncertain as to what triggered our first exchange of words. I am also uncertain what we first talked about, but it was not long before we got down to brass tacks.

He peered at my face and said, “You look a little Asian.”

How provocative…

I could have said, “Well, you look a lot Asian.” I could have said, “What the hell do you mean by that?” I guess my response was appropriate: “Maybe a little Native, but who knows? With all the DNA studies I guess I look like those who came from Siberia or across the Pacific, depending on the theory…”

At is turned out, he had been born in Korea. When he was four years old his aunt, who had married a serviceman, adopted him and he had been raised in Des Moines, Iowa. He had served in the US Army and had become an attorney.

We laughed with true mirth as he spoke about growing up in a rather poor neighborhood and discovering (after he had forgotten) that he was not “white”. We laughed aloud as he related a story about one of his Army buddies taking him to a bar in Virginia where he was left with a mental picture of “the bar scene” from Animal House when the white college students first entered the, well, “not-white” bar to face a sudden, dead silence as all those present turned to stare.

We laughed because “it”, our being “different” didn’t really matter… It didn’t really matter. It didn’t really matter, that is, until it did matter, and when it did, we were hit directly in the face and stunned.

We laughed ironically when he spoke of the colorline he encountered while serving in Alabama and when I noted my wife and her ex, a half-Japanese Lt. Col. in the Armored Air Cavalry, had been stationed there to encounter definite racial discrimination. How crazy!

We did not laugh at all when we spoke of being “in between” – of belonging, and yet not belonging at all. There was no laughter when we spoke of “code shifting” (although not discussed by name), the attitudinal, behavioral and even intellectual shifts we made in order to navigate social environments as we crossed one borderline to the next…

I didn’t ask about the circumstances leading to his adoption because I figured he would have told me had he felt up to it. I didn’t ask if he had been spat on, beaten up, told to return to where he had come from or whether he had been treated like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer…

If our paths cross again, maybe we’ll “do lunch” and talk about what really matters and what the matter is with that…

I know better…

I have been “looking for employment opportunities”. As a solo practitioner of law I have dealt with a fair number of Civil Rights matters. Not long ago I applied for an administrative position dealing with diversity at an institution of higher learning operated by a State. In applying for the position, I was required to submit a “Statement of Diversity Philosophy”, something I had never before given consideration to putting in a writing. Here is what I came up with:

In pragmatic terms, my diversity philosophy finds expression in a statement made by a Michigan Department of Civil Rights investigator: “If you wish to know “what” an individual prefers to be referred to as and what it is that they seek, just ask them and proceed from there.”

 On a more ethereal plane, my diversity (and life) philosophy is summarized in words heard during certain ceremonies and discussions: “All my relations.” This -statement expresses a personal realization that one’s relationships include physical descent and progeny, sociocultural interactions, relationships with and between one’s physical body and all other manifestations of physical substance, and whatever ‘knowledge’ one has or seeks to acquire. The boundaries that these words suggest is the concept of the Null, that which cannot be because Null is an erasure of every thing, including the thinking of it. As a final matter, realization of the full breadth of one’s relationships involves acknowledgment that exclusion of “others” damages oneself more than “them”.

I expected to not get called for an interview. I was not disappointed.

I knew better than to submit my philosophy because the acceptable framework for “diversity” today is formulaic and, due to legal matters, quite rigid.

I know how the game is played but the game is, at best, amoral.

I believe that deciding to play the game by its rules constitutes an immoral decision.

What If You Are _____ ?

What if you are:

Literate

Illiterate

Rich

Poor

Smart

Stupid

In

Out

Beautiful

Ugly

Hot

Cold

Good

Evil

Rational

Crazy

Creative

Destructive

Dead

Alive

Us

Them

You

Me

…so what???

Are you certain your identification(s) is/are “correct”? Since you have “read” to this point, perhaps you are “literate”… please read this:

He was there…

He was there and cooled his feet in the Mirror Pond. For months afterward he would hum “We shall overcome” , sometimes bursting into song.

The March on Washington, 1963

From time-to-time I look at photographs and film clips, looking for his face shining in a sea of other faces. Given the forty-one year gap between us, I was not even in kindergarten. I was at home riding a tricycle.

He was there in a pit between sandbags piled between the APCs and the church. He watched as the siege ended. He said it had looked like a war zone earlier — the ground had been burned due to the flares used by heavily armed Federal Marshals as they kept watch over a few Indians who occupied the  church, rifles in hand .

The Church at Wounded Knee, following the 1973 A.I.M. occupation

He was a 20-year old college student back then. From time-to-time I look at photographs and film clips, looking for his face shining in a sea of other faces.

I was a young minister/missionary kid living in Nigeria. About the time he was there, I was at the Katsina Alta, fishing for “giwan ruwa” (the elephant of the water, better known as Niger perch).

It would be years before I went to DC. When I did, it was not to protest or march to show solidarity — I was an attorney meeting with an expert medical witness. It would be even longer before set foot on a Reservation. When I finally did, it was not Pine Ridge. If I ever go there, I am certain I will not be there as an observer.

Years of life and a color line separate me from my adoptive father and also-adopted brother. They grew up in “America” and are “Americans”. After  hearing them tell of their lives, I am certain we live in alternate universes.