Signs of Our Times

It's no accident that we often hear our current times described as dystopic. Just look around. On a daily basis, we see tent cities near most freeway exits, overpasses, and on-ramps. The number of mental health crises on display as we go through our everyday routines seems to be increasing. Gun violence is setting new records and fear permeates everyday decisions like going out at night or driving somewhere new.

In my neighborhood, a slew of businesses have gone out of business. Consequently, the look of a ghost town prevails. Depression best describes the nature of the economy as well as the population.

Still, there are reasons to feel better. In times of social change and upheaval, some people respond with their best. While the decline in democratic values has mesmerized the country, and progressive ideas continue to be repealed by the Supreme Court, the resistance grows and people find ways to be optimistic about the future. We have to. The alternative offers nothing.

This morning, while on my walk I noticed a sign in the window of a barbershop. While at first amusing, I realized it represented a form of progress as well. The amusement came when I found myself wondering if racism was tolerated at a reasonable distance, just now within ten feet. Of course,
I'm being silly here, but the way the message presented itself, it gave one pause.

Comments

To a Tee

I'm a sucker for a good t-shirt. They are the foundational garment of my life. My day starts with selecting a t-shirt and it ends with sleeping in one. Once thought of as under garments, t-shirts are now original art and no doubt, a billion dollar business. You can get a t-shirt with anybody's picture displayed. You can commemorate an event, a birthday, a death, even a specular play in any sport. Family reunions usually have a commemorative t-shirt. Also, any organization that solicits your support in the form of a donation is likely to offer you a t-shirt. Where once I only had the basic white t-shirt, my drawers are filled with all manner of colorful choices. Some recognize major events in my life, some, spectacular performances or plays I have witnessed, and some unforgettable places I have been. I say I'm a sucker for a good t-shirt because I have taken the bait on what I perceived as a must-have only to be disappointed. ...

Mr. Greene v. Mr. Brown

I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind of person I wouldn't need to talk about it. I'm not. My need to tell it is stronger than your need to hear it. Because, however, there are a number of teachers and former students of mine who may read these meanderings from time to time, I need to tell this story all the more. About 7 or 8 years ago I was asked if I would allow a university PhD. candidate to observe an English class. At first I decided against it because I was scheduled to have a student teacher placed with me the second half of the semester in question. After some urging, however, at the request of a respected colleague, I agreed. Soon I was committing to extra meetings, signing documents and explaining to the class in question who the young woman who thoughtfully pounded away on a laptop in the rear of the classroom three times a week was. I knew that the topic of ...

Body Language

I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical. This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair. I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself. At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office. But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter. So I fidget. Then I begin a tour of myself. Scars are tattoos. I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12. Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife. The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life. 50 years later ...

Daily Blues & Views

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