The Dumb and the Dead

Our daughter had just had her appendix removed. In the lobby of University Hospital in Syracuse, as I was coming in from a breath of fresh air, I came upon a man pushing a stretcher on which was shrouded a dead body. I was by myself having left my wife and daughter upstairs in the room, but I could hear my daughter asking, “why is that person hiding under the covers, Daddy?” And I wondered, isn’t there a back door through which the dead could pass while we come through the front intent on our continuing struggle to live?

A Man Down, A Woman Sinking

In the parking lot of the mall after my daughter’s dance class, my wife and I were clipping our daughters in their car seats when I heard someone crying out in pain and panic. I saw that my wife had the kids and ran across the lot to where a woman was stooping down to help. Much later, when I had time to think about it, I realized that part of me worried that I would find a person dying or dead. I was worrying that there would be blood or something worse. But there wasn’t so much of that worry going on that I stopped running.

An old man had fallen and was crying out in pain, in surprise, in anger, and in only part of his right mind. Looking at him and at his wife I saw clearly that they were in their seventies and, as I tried to help, I knew that they had married as different people, as whole people, and that now their bodies and minds were deserting them. He yelled at me that he had fallen on his face and I saw that there was a scratch there. “I see that,” I told him. “You have a scratch there.” He seemed to need the confirmation as he believed that his wife wasn’t accepting this fact. I could see that she was, that she understood all of what was going on. “How can I help?” I asked her.

We agreed that he needed to get up, but she told me that I had to get him up from behind, picking him up under his arms. I was willing and tried to speak calmly to both of them as I switched places with her. Another man came toward us and he helped pick the man up from the front. We got him standing. “Thank you,” he said. “That was really a slap in the face,” he said.

I asked his wife if she needed anything else. She said, no, and began helping him into the driver’s seat. A woman who was watching us called out that, “he shouldn’t be driving.” I told the wife to take care. She thanked me. “He shouldn’t be driving,” the woman called out again. I walked back to my car, past that woman, and said, it’s alright. But she wasn’t about to be put off. She said it again. This, I imagine, was her version of helping.

Back in the car, my girls asked what had happened, and I told them. “Is he okay?” my oldest asked. I told her that he was. I watched the old man’s wife wave off the woman who was still saying that the old man shouldn’t drive. I thought of all the work that wife had ahead of her today, tomorrow, and the rest of their days. I thought of this other woman, overweight, meddling, and loud. I considered hitting her with my car as I drove away. But instead, I called my girls names, listened for them to ask, “what?” and told them to help people whenever they need it.

“What you do is more than what you say, girls.”

A Polite Society

At the school where I teach, in a building shared with an adult education center, there was a note above the bank of urinals. It read, “The handle is for flushing. Please use it.” As someone who often rails against the high crime of an unflushed toilet, I have often thought of leaving my own note, but have, instead been flushing the unflushed and trying to lead by example. Hey, look at me up on the high road.

I thought about that note as I stood at the urinal. Sure, it said please, but the note dripped with attitude and I’m not for any kind of dripping in the bathroom. And so I thought about revisions. I went through several until I settled on the simplest solution, “please flush.” That’s what I would have posted. “Flush,” is too short and has the same lack of civility, but by appending a simple “please” the message is a polite request.

I’m finding more and more that sarcasm is unsatisfying. It doesn’t get the change in opinion that I’m hoping for from others, and it no longer gives me the self-satisfaction of feeling superior, alas. I’m opting more for irony when I have to and polite request most other times. Tomorrow, now that I’ve given it more than enough thought, I’ll go back into the bathroom, take down the note, and flush. I think we can get along without so many signs blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind.

Thank You, Hamas

I’ve been struggling with the idea that Hamas is now in power in Palestine. I’m partial to Israel, given that my wife and daughters are Jewish, but I’m also sympathetic to the notion of sharing the land. Further, in a strange occurrence, I go along with the Bush Administration in thinking that Democratic governments are preferable to most others. And so, for weeks, I’ve been struggling with the fact that so many governments are withholding money from the Palestinian government. It seemed two-faced in that the demand was for the Palestinians to have democratic elections and then, once they had had them and they had gone a way that most had hoped they wouldn’t, and now we were going to withhold all support. So I was torn.

I’m not torn anymore. The title links to a CNN article in which Hamas takes credit for a suicide bomber’s attack on a sandwich shop in Israel. They have called the bombing justified and that does it for me.

A terrorist group uses suicide bombing as a “justified” means of overthrowing power. That’s what’s happening in Iraq. But legitimate governments deserving of foreign aid can’t abide by such things.

My decision is made. I’m comfortable now with all funding being withheld from Hamas. I’m more than comfortable with it. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind if existence was withheld from Hamas as a political or terrorist organization. They have nothing left to say.

Life Water by SoBe

I bought a bottle of Life Water (Blackberry Grape flavor) while at the hospital the other day. I was tired, there wasn’t an enormous selection of drinks, and I thought that maybe I would like something with a bit more flavor than plain water. The name Life Water sounded good to me and so I bought a bottle, settled in at a table and started my lunch.

Life Water’s second ingredient is, of course, sugar in the form of fructose. It got me to wondering why it is that nearly every product available for us to eat or drink is filled with sugar. I understand that I’m not hitting on a new idea here, but it was a realization for me.

I’m thirty-seven years old and thirty pounds overweight. This thirty pound mark isn’t some crazy number but one straight from my doctor. Let me say, before I go any further, that my being overweight is a direct result of my actions. I don’t blame anyone other than me. Okay? Got that? Alright.

What I do want to say is that we are advancing our collective weight gain by thoughtlessly picking up whatever the food corporations are selling. Like I did at the hospital, we go about buying fat-free cookies, low-carb beers, and (my favorite) healthy fast-food. I bought Life Water, because it was disguised as something good for me. Foolish me.

What’s the point?

When I was really little kid, I was watching television while my mom was cleaning something in the room. An ad came on and said that a certain product was now new and improved. I asked Mom what they had improved and whether or not we should go get some of whatever it was they were selling. Mom kept cleaning and offhandedly said, “all advertisements are lies, honey.” It wasn’t a big message that she was trying to give me, just a simple truth. Turns out, she was right and still is.

Life Water my ass. The only life water I know of, comes out of the tap.