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Showing posts from May, 2010

Born To Be

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I didn't go to many movies that year. Living on $180 a month didn't leave room for much after food and rent. But when Easy Rider came to Houston, Texas in the Fall of 1969, everybody on the VISTA project went. We went in groups because, after all, it was Texas. If I told you that after the last scene of the film, the one where Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper get blown away by shot gun toting rednecks in a beat-up old pick-up truck somewhere inside Louisiana, that some folks in the theater audience applauded, I'd be telling the truth. Long hair on men had not come to the South until later. Dope smoking, motorcycle riding, war-resisting, free-loving counter culture types were thought to be a major threat to democracy, at least one version of it. The hair and the marijuana would come a few years later, but on this day, many in that Houston theater were relieved when the forces of vigilantism restored order in the land. We weren't surprised. Back then we too had the

Don't Know Much

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First it was the Apartheid like Immigration law, now the state of Arizona is after "Ethnic Studies." Where do they think they are living? This comes on the heels of the state of Texas renaming slavery the "triangular trade" and putting a decidedly "whiter than white" spin on all the history that's fit to print in their eyes. Make no mistake: this is very dangerous stuff. Where to begin? An objective article I recently read about the Arizona ethnic studies bill said this: "The bill prohibits any class in the state from promoting either the overthrow of the U.S. government or resentment toward a race or class of people, and that advocates ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals, and -- here’s the big one -- that are designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group." Oh how it comes around. How fascinating this paradox. Just a little over 50 years ago the dominant "race or class of people" r

Forward March

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"I want my country back." I keep hearing that exclamation from the disgruntled tea baggers. My my what a coded message if ever there was one. What are they really saying? I want this and I don't want this? I feel there loss, but since when did time ever march backwards? The more things change, the more they stay the same. Not really. The more we want them to stay the same. Impossible. Thousands of years ago the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said it best, "You cannot step in the same river twice, for fresh waters are ever flowing upon you." Yes they are. What is also flowing upon us is the transition that we are right in the big middle of right now. Everyday, those "fresh waters" are evidenced in what is here and what is no longer here. You Tube is 5 years old today. Millions of videos are uploaded every 24 hours. It can't be reversed. In only 5 years imagine how many lives changed, lessons learned, surprises discovered...? Two weeks ag

Swept Away

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A new book out about compulsive hoarding called Stuff has me thinking about that age old question: If you had only five minutes to go through your house and keep just a few things, what would you keep? In my downsizing over the last couple of years I've been dealing with letting go more than ever. It is easier to say good-bye to anything easily replaceable. Books, records/CDs, even clothing fits that category. I've parted with file cabinets of teaching materials and even a few "treasures" that I still have second thoughts about. But in the end, it is all just stuff. It is also a way we define ourselves. Who am I now that I don't own? _________ (fill in the blank) Like most people, I would save photographs first. But what happens to them when we no longer own them? If we don't pass them on to immediate family what becomes of these documents? Fortunately there are people who love the mystery of a good photograph. I see the bits and pieces of live

Post Derby

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I've been sorting out this year's Kentucky Derby for the past few days. Despite the tumult and change, I love that it's still so unpredictable, such a mystery. This year I seemed to be burdened by a bit more than finding the winner or getting a nice score at the window. This year was more about other years. Here's a first draft of what followed the Run for the Roses in my mind this year Derby Day It’s finally here. As always, I haven’t slept well because I’m too excited. I quit trying to get to bed early any more. Useless. Too much to replay in my mind, anyway. Will it rain? How much? Who can I eliminate? Who might I be leaving out? I turn over on my back. I picture the view of the Churchill Downs infield from the Press Box. Ever see an oval of 150,000 people? It’s a sound tunnel of cheering, anticipation, and delirious mystery about to be revealed. I hear My Old Kentucky Home, with it’s revised lyrics so the racism of Antebellum America lies burie