Times Were Changing

 Like many of my generation, I found my way to a movie theater on Christmas day to see the opening of the new Dylan film, A Complete Unknown.  I'd read many of the reviews and seen the interviews with the actors, so I expected that the performances would be first rate, and the music would be worthy of its objectives.  It was.  We're going to see a few Oscars here before all the reactions die down.  I knew that this film only represented some critical years in the rise of Bob Dylan and was glad that it didn't attempt to be a complete biography.  I knew, too, that Dylan, himself had given his blessing to the film and wasn't critical of anything.  

When history becomes a movie, many liberties are taken and facts altered for various reasons.  Fortunately that didn't happen here.  Yes, there were some changes made, and poetic license was taken here and there.  But at its core, the film is sound and solid.  For someone my age it can't help but be sentimental.  It was such a heady time when the country was about to enter a full-time war in Vietnam and the Civil Rights movement was full swing.  

To hear those topical songs, sung with the authenticity of acoustic instruments, was powerful.  We suddenly went from novelty songs, early rock and roll, and teen idols to something so serious and true that the impact was revolutionary.  Transformative, to be sure.   Going electric was not that big disappointment for me and many of my friends. We loved Al Cooper's organ sound on Like a Rolling Stone.

So many of us picked up harmonicas and guitars and joined the movement.  Our ethos had a sound tract now.  We had new idols and most of all, the world was changing right in front of our eyes.  

For me, the controversy of Dylan going electric was overblown.  He still wrote and performed his music and that was all that mattered.  Yes, there were purists who wanted folk festivals to remain acoustic and unsullied, but the times demanded much more.  The film's color pallet is as warm and inviting as many of those small clubs and coffeehouses I recall from those days.  I'm overjoyed that new generations will now be introduced to Bob Dylan and his music.

Body of Work

 

Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,

    A Hard Rain's A Gonna Fall,

Like A Rolling Stone,

    with no Shelter From the Storm,

To uncover the Masters of War, who make Desolation Row,

    and Don't Think Twice, with God on Our Side,

The Ballad of a Thin Man, got

    Tangled Up in Blue, from a Hurricane, that left My Back Pages

Blowin" in the Wind.

No Restless Farewell, the Times They are a Changin'

and I Shall be Released from the Gates of Eden.

    A Simple Twist of Fate, left you Knockin' on Heaven's Door,

Shouting I Contain Multitudes, 

    And It's All Over Now Baby Blue,

   Yes, it's getting late, but it's Not Dark Yet,

I Read Banned Books

 I see my home state is at it again. Book banning at some schools in Grant's Pass, Oregon.  his overprotective, curiosity killing sport lives on.  Funny thing is, though, all that ever results from attempts to keep books from readers is that they find other ways to secure the forbidden material.  Even funnier, however, is that some fairly well-known and award winning titles continue to make it onto the "Frequently Banned Books" list.

I'm rather proud that about 60% of the books I taught to high school Juniors and Seniors are on those lists.  No, my classes did not contain books that were objectionable because of vivid sex scenes or radical political theories.  Yes, there was some violence, some expressions of affection for self and others, and certainly political statements.  There were also some Nobel Prized winners in the group as well.

Today the offended school boards and their supporters are complaining about books that deal with themes of gender identity.  This is to be expected, given where we are with the emergence of young people declaring themselves non-binary.  But it's only natural that people would write books helping young folks who struggle, mostly aline, with these issues.  Lives are often in the balance so you'd think that even the squeamish would welcome some assistance in this department.  But no.  Onward they go banning left and right, often books they have not even read.  

Of course the old standbys continue to be banned.  Even titles like The Grapes of Wrath, The Color Purple, Beloved, and yes, The Catcher in the Rye are off limits for some high school students.

Also high on the list is Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye.  That is a book I taught for over 25 years with as much success as anything I ever did.  The offending portions are some passages, quite lyrical I might add, where the young protagonist  self pleasures in discovering her own body.  Hard to see how this can offend people, but nevertheless they scream about it.  No matter every person deals with these issues at some time in their life.  The real treasures in the book are the discussion possibilities about standards of beauty, the power of self hatred, the power of media images, and the consequences of emotional and physical abuse.

I would have loved to have testified before a committee about how I taught The Bluest Eye.  The emphasis would have been on how many important themes, topics, and issues would be lacerated from the curriculum if that book were unavailable.  I recall one particular group presentation in one of my English classes where a small group of African American girls.  They discussed and demonstrated the many hair straightening and skin lightening products available to Black women.  Pecola Breedlove, the book's main character is bound up in thinking her worth is in her beauty and what is beautiful is white skin, straight hair, and blue eyes.  Not only was this particular presentation eye-opening for my students, but even more so for one particular student who was challenged by this Honors class but after this experience felt much more comfortable with her peers.

I should mention too that the ethic make-up of a class goes a long way in determining the quality of discussion and the life experience that students bring to a work of literature.  I'd be happy to elaborate on that, with illustrations, should anyone want to know more.  Simply contact me through the information on my Blog profile.  

So, what gives someone the authority and agency to suggest banning a book?

Reading Aloud (Allowed)

 I must have done 35 Back To School nights in my teaching career.  Like an open house, a Back to School night occurs after the first month or so of the new school semester and gives parents an opportunity to meet their child's teachers and learn a bit ab out the expectations and curriculum for the school year.  Of all the post presentation comments I ever received from parents, the most memorable came from a parent who whispered something in my ear and then walked away.  Apparently her need to tell me something was greater than to stand in the modest line and wait her turn to talk with the teacher.  

Still the comment did not fall on deaf ears.  "Thank you for reading to your class," she said. "Especially at this level." That latter comment meant that she believed just because they were high school Juniors in an Honors class, they weren't beyond being read to.  In my view, she gets it.  Reading aloud is a vital part in educating a person.  Language, in all its rhythm and flow, needs to be heard out loud.  

Research tells us that parents and people who read to kids model important skills and help insure lifelong reading.  Given that we live in a country where half the people did not read a book in the last year, this is significant.  I'd wager no reading in the last 10 or even 20 years for most.  Scary, no?

With the increasing impact of technology, that figure isn't going to improve any time soon.  Maybe audio books will have an impact, but they compete with so many things that are available.  I guess listening to something whether it's music or pod-casts or audio books is time well spent, but does it reproduce the experience of personal engagement with a text and the various skills that develops.

I recall having a class of virtual non-readers.  It was a small group of mostly teenage boys who started the academic year late.  Some came from Juvenile Hall, others had been expelled from one school district to another.  Still others had moved recently. All were seen as students with low skills that were reluctant readers.  Quite a challenge.  This came at a point when I was a fairly young teacher and did not have the classroom library I ultimately developed over 30 plus years.  I had only the materials that were available to me.  This group consisted of 14students, of which 11-14 showed up daily.  Mostly male, African-American, and low skilled.  I chose Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea to start the year for a couple of reasons.  It involved fishing, and it was there in the textbook room.  Ever aware of meeting the needs and interests of all my students, male and female, diverse ethnic groups, all skill levels, I often supplemented other genres of thematic literature while teaching a novel.  Could be a poem, a sone, a short story, or even a film.  

We read that Hemingway novel together.  Every word, aloud in the classroom.  I'd read a while, and then ask for volunteers.  While I'd read for 15-20 minutes at a time, students would usually read for 5-10 minutes.  If there was a lag, I'd emote, vary my voice inflection, pause for digesting a particular poignant event.  I gave that novel all I had in me.  As a friend of mine would say, "I taught the hair off that book."

For some in that class, it was the first time they'd completed an entire adult book.  By that I mean a piece of literature rather than a child's book.  I like to think it set a tone and made reading other books by that crew possible.  People like a good story.  They like being told a good story.  Isn't that what happens when we mature readers sit down with a good book.  

Disappeared?

 They disappear. People, treasured memories, cherished objects.  From car keys to one-time friends, to collections, to everyday items, things disappear.  

Over a lifetime, a few chosen objects or people irritate the mind.  Where did they go?  We all have these mysteries.  For me it's a few folks I knew in college, my baseball cards, and accidental displacements.

I had a robust collection of 1950s baseball cards between the ages of 8 and 12.  Lots from the glory years of 1951-1956.  They were in a couple of shoe boxes, the thin ones that originally held US Keds.  After I turned about 14, they went from my bedroom closet to the garage.  At least that's what I tell myself.  By the time I left my childhood home for good and returned to clean it out after my father's death, they were nowhere to be seen.  Nobody in my family would have thrown them out.  Nevertheless, like so many before me, they disappeared.  

When I see 1955 Mickey Mantle, or Willie Mays cards online, and what they sell for now, it's a gut punch.  Those were the glory years,  I played Little League baseball, I spent every nickel and dime I came by on those cards, and I traded for some.  

There was a kid I knew back in the 5th grade. He lived a few blocks from me in an older house on a street that wasn't completely paved.  I recall a wishing well in his front yard and a C-shaped driveway.  Kids called him Chuckie.  He wanted a few of the black and white glossies I used to get from a NY uncle who worked for King Features Syndicate.  These were photos that never made the newspapers and would be thrown out.  He'd scoop up a handful and every so often I'd get a large brown envelope in the mail.  Uncle Murray would always say, these are for you, but please don't sell them.  He never said anything about trading them.   traded three photos of Yankee baseball action (two of which I had doubles) for about 6 1951 baseball cards.  In the cards I got was Satchel Paige when he was briefly with the St. Louis Browns, and a couple of other players.  Still those 1951 Tops cards are worth much more today, but like all the other cards I had...disappeared.  

After the internet captured our fancy, I found I could see those colorful cards  buy simply using Google Images.  Whoa! did a flood of memories unfold when I saw 60 years later the likes of Spook Jacobs, Ferris Fain, and Sandy Koufax from the 1954 editions.

Too bad the Internet can't always bring back people or places as they were.  The house I grew up in still stands, but I wouldn't recognize it or be able to make my way safely around it in the dark.  The back yard is most likely full of concrete and the elm tree my grandfather planted gone as well as Orange, Lemon, plum, and apricot trees I once harvested.  The wooden fence and my mother's clothes line will always exist in my mind, but all are gone now.  In 1969, when I left that home, I could tell you who lived in every house on the street, nobody today.  That's just the way of things.  As Willy Loman, in Arthur Miller's prize winning play "Death of a Salesman" moaned:

“Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally own it, and there's nobody to live in it.”

Those losses are to be expected, what about people who have crossed your path and seem impossible to forget? Four folks I knew in college disappeared when I graduated.  If I hadn't gone to such a large school like UCLA, that might not have happened.  Marv was my age and dealing with the draft in the same way as me.  We often spoke about filing conscientious objector status and ultimately did.  After a good high school friend of mine was killed in Vietnam, it became easier to make that decision.  I hope Marv is still around and fondly recalls those years, especially for the music and counter culture.  Another Bruce was a person I could have remained friends with longer with if circumstances hadn't interfered.  Last I heard he was in Chicago.  Bruce G (my initials too) served as a spirit guide for me helping me navigate the changing values of the 1960s.  He took say more risks than I did, but I could always pick his brain and know what to expect.  A cheerleader, a deep thinker, a guy who wanted to help people, not kill them, he was the kind of friend I needed in those heady yet lonely times.  

There were two women I knew back then that drifted into the ether too.  Judy liked to quote Shakespeare, knew a lot of crash pads and passed me my first joint.  I recall a period on my life when I was drifting amid a pile of moral questions.  She was there for me a few times and I never got to thank her properly.  We had the kind of friendship that was just that.  No real sexual tension, just good friends.

With Susan it was different.  She was 4 years younger than me, a Freshman I met during my Senior year at a party.  I really liked her, but we both knew the timing wasn't right.  I've often wondered if she ever achieved her career goals and if she ever found, "the one."  One of the few genuinely nice people I met on that large campus.  

Maybe they haven't disappeared if I recall them so vividly after all these years?  There is some merit in holding on to the images and emotions we retain.  Retained probably for a reason.

Pay It Forward

 After my lifelong friend Kenny died, his partner sent me some of his books, records, and fly fishing gear.  Kenny and I met at age 9 in the dugout of the Sun Valley Little League during the tryouts in 1956.  Through Jr. high and high school we remained friends,  Even though we went to different colleges, we stayed close.  In fact it is during those years between the ages of 19-22 that we cemented our shared interest in the burgeoning folk/rock music scene, beat poets, foreign films, and baseball.  Living in LA in the late 1960s we had a wonderland of opportunities to see iconic blues and jazz artists.  We frequented small bookstore readings, music clubs, and small cinema houses that featured many films from the iconic European filmmakers.  Kenny read widely and most of the time, had his own car and knew the geography of the vast LA basin.  In later years from the 80s to early 2000s we went on fly fishing trips together, camping and exploring many of Northern California and Central Oregon's most beautiful spots.  

As we aged, our visits became less frequent, but always we exchanged birthday gifts, because, ironically, we shared the same birthday.  So, after Kenny's passing, his partner wanted to fulfill some of Kenny's wishes and made some of his books available to me.  I asked only for a small group of poetry books and perhaps a few of his blues/jazz records.  She was anxious to complete the job of clearing out his small apartment/studio and he had previously made arrangements for most of his art supplies to go to the Art Department of Cal State, Northridge.  

Kenny loved the Beat poets and the crown jewel of his small collection of poetry books was a 1969 copy of Howl that he got Alan Ginsberg to sign after meeting Ginsberg at a bookstore reading back in 1991.  

I have enjoyed looking through this dozen or so volumes but since I have also been thinking about where to place my most treasured books, I decided to put some energy into finding a home for Kenny's books.  Then it hit me.  There is a small, independent bookstore in my neighborhood that would be perfect.  It specializes in good used books and sports a nice collection of small press poetry anthologies.  If I were out to cash in on my friend's books I could do the research and sell them piecemeal on Ebay, but I'm not interested in that.  I want to find a good home for these books and know that Kenny would want that and really love this little bookstore.  

I went to the store and as expected, both guys working there went nuts for this small collection.  After spending a little time online double checking the availability and prices some of the rarer books had brought, we arrived on an agreeable number.  The owner of the little store is barely scraping by in this economy, but was really taken with a few of the poetry books.  Some  poets like Diane Di Prima, Jack Horseman, and Kenneth Rexroth.  

This guy really appreciates this stuff, I kept thinking.  Kenny would be pleased.  That happiness was mixed with overwhelming sadness as I walked home.  All part of the grieving process.

These Eyes

 These eyes are deep brown,

They've seen for decades.

Sights include:

Those who hate (heard too)

Emotional darts thrown at the vulnerable.

Poverty from aging wooden homes,

Whose walls have child-eyes,

Empty kitchens,

Clothes long gone,

cheap highs in the gutter,

Catatonic, clinging survivors,

unemployment waiting rooms,

unnecessary wars,

Prime of life interrupted,

Friends gone too soon.

Then too, 

meadow streams,

Alpine lakes,

Crystal rivers,

Love returned,

isolation,

watercolor worlds,

gleaming coat of a thoroughbred,

Black spotted golden Redside trout,

Fluorescent blue/pink spotted Brook trout,

Black/tan Brown trout,

Willie Mays play,

100,000 people in the street,

Iron gate at the White House,

Coffins on the Capital steps,

Texas, Montana, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Newark, New Orleans, Baltimore, Portland, Atlanta, Dallas, Los Cabos, Mex. from above,

Son House, Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf, Elvis, Arthur Crudup, Miles, Brownie and Sonny, Big Mama, Donovan, Dylan, 

Appreciation

Seeds planted.

Intelligence harvested.

Free Concert

 It was a moment in time.  Something that could hardly happen again.  Imagine going into a place to look at and probably buy some records of some of your favorite artists, and seeing one or two of them right next to you in the store.  

In the late 1960s I spent a lot of time in and around the famed LA folk/blues club, the Ash Grove.  It was where I could see performances by legends like Son House, Howlin" Wolf, Elizabeth Cotton, and Big Mama Thornton.  The place was a living museum and gave me an opportunity to see many influential performers in the last years of their lives.  People like Sleepy John Estes,  Yank Rachel, Lightnin" Hopkins, Hedy West, and Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup all played there.  Crude was the bluesman who wrote and recorded "That's Alright" in 1947, well before a young Elvis Presley took it and added a rockabilly beat and soon became the "King" of Rock and Roll." If Presley was the King, Crudup was the Father. Presley made millions, Crudup, virtually nothing.  

If the Ash Grove was a premier folk/blues club, it was also a book and record store.  Back then there was a counter in the front where a small selection of books and records were available for purchase.  On the counter, from time to time, was a clip board where people could fill in, "Performers you'd like to see here."

In 1967, during my Jr. year at UCLA, I'd drive from the Westwood campus every Sunday after studying all morning,  to the Ash Grove on Melrose Blvd, to check out the records and pick up a flyer of coming events.  One Sunday after 4 hours in the research library, I arrived and heard music coming from the empty club.  In the darkened room, with the reflection of a ceiling fan painting shadows on the floor, was a  very young Taj Mahal giving guitar lessons to an even younger but eager student.  Every now and then, after showing his pupil some lick or blues run, Taj would just continue on by himself and play riff after riff completely enraptured by the music radiating from his National steel-bodied guitar.  It was like a free concert where I was the only one in the audience.  When that ended I returned to the foyer of the club and began to scroll through the blues records.  To my right, was a large woman in bucket hat, blue jeans and plaid shirt.  When she turned around I saw it was Big Mama Thornton.  She'd come in to sign a contract to play at the club and wanted to check out the records before going home.  

Before I left, I ran into a friend of mine who was pondering who to add to the clipboard requesting  possible performers.  He asked me if there was anyone I wanted to see.  I had just started playing blues harmonica and I quickly responded, "Sonny Boy Williamson II.  Rice Miller, the second one, not Sonny Boy I, John Lee Williamson."  I knew he was no longer alive.

"He Dead." Sonny Boy II died." I turned to see Taj Mahal.  "Yeah, he died a while back, I'd love to see him too, but we can't now."

I thanked Taj, and left the clipboard blank.  Anyway the Ash Grove was doing a pretty good job of booking people already.

Don't Mock Me

 As the clock winds down on the 2024 Presidential election, the mood is tense and foreboding.  It wasn't always this way.  Still, a quick look at the history of our elections shows some striking similarities.  This election is the most crucial in our lifetime...they all say.  As a 7th grader in Jr. High I recall how the Nixon/Kennedy race of 1960 was described that way.  The week before the vote the popular sit-com "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis even ended its program with a giant question mark.  If we only knew how both those candidates would end up taking their place in history!  You can watch that episode here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvV8xaL8TIY

I recall, too, how we debated the issues in my classes.  Those activities were spirited, to be sure, but nothing like the climate today.  Back then we all took Government classes with a big-ass textbook.  We learned about the 3 branches of government, the various intricacies of our national government, and, of course the history of electoral politics.  Most every kid then knew their elected representatives and even a bit about the electoral college.

In the 1970s-the 1990s, I taught a few Senior Government classes.  By that time, much of the emphasis was on local politics and the intersection of law and justice.  No longer were those big textbooks checked out to each student.  Some remained in the classroom for reference, but eventually, they were replaced by GOOGLE.  In my Social Science Department, we did a mock Congress in these classes.  An elaborate  role-play, students took the roles of various national lawmakers and wrote bills and then tried to get then enacted into law.  All the popular national leaders were represented and students looked forward to playing the role of popular politicians like Ted Kennedy, John McCain, John Lewis, and Nancy Pelosi. 

I often wonder, given the make-up of the current Congress, how dong a simulation  like that would go.  Congress is so dysfunctional and many of the personalities so sociopathic that it just might be impossible.  My students were often motivated to write a piece of legislation and struggle to get it through the Congress.  That's how they learned about things like the filibuster, conference committees, the veto, and how to build a coalition.  

One thing I know for sure: Come November 6th, the day after the election, teachers will be challenged to keep the lid on their discussions in class.  Hopefully, the days of the Mock Congress will return to our classrooms and our students will compete to play the roles of stable, sane, intelligent, and hard-working law-makers who know how to get things done.

Dart Board

He said it was like a dart.  Like being hit by a dart.  He was talking about being on the receiving end of a racial epithet or being the recipient of prejudice when someone speaks.  I concur.  I find dart to be a perfect metaphor because it probably won't kill you to be hit by one, but it stings, it's sharp, and you've become a target.  

When Trump uses terms like "poisoning the blood," and "vermin," he's throwing darts.  Today we call them "dog whistles" but darts is a better term because they stick, they cause pain, and they are meant for specific targets.  

Ever been hit by a dart like this?  If so, you know the sting never leaves.  I recall a few very specific darts thrown my way during childhood.  Once, while walking home from Elementary school, a girl in my neighborhood announced she had a $10 bill.  To a 9-year-old, in the 1950s that was a small fortune.  Apparently her parents were getting divorced and her father had recently explained to her that he would no longer be living in the family home.  He gave her $10 before he said good-bye.  After we got over the shock of seeing a real $10 bill, this girl, Donna Dye, was her name, then announced that she was going to spend it all on candy.

On our way home was a small drug store with a large candy counter.  In those days it was still possible to buy candy for a few pennies.  Some were two for a penny, or 3 cents a piece.  Major candy bars were a nickel and deluxe candy bars were a dime.  The nickel and dime bars were usually out of our reach.  

So, gonna Dye goes in the store and talks to Bonnie, the clerk there.  We all knew her because she lived on my sweet and her son was just a year older than me.  Bonnie asks Donna if she really wants to spend the ten bucks on candy?  She does.  

Donna exits the store with a brown paper bag full of candy.  Given the prices then, she has about 150 pieces of candy.  She offers candy to the three of us waiting for her.  The first kid takes a tootsie roll, a tootsie pop, and some Smarties.  The bag is then pointed my way.  I peer inside and see the gold foil of the  one candy item I never had, I never afford.  The Rolo.  The roll of caramel filled chocolate pieces had always eluded me, so I took it.  Then came the dart.

"Only a Jew would take that candy."  The dart was thrown by Dennis Miller.  A classic bully type, Dennis making a remark like that was hardly a surprise.  Now, I did not come from a particularly religious family and never identified as Jewish, nor did I deny my ethnicity.  No matter, Dennis threw the dart based in some internal need to reinforce a stereotype.  The day that happened, I knew little of anti-semitism or its roots.  I only knew I was instantly made the "other."  In the years that followed, through Jr. High and High School I would learn more, experience more too.  

Jr. High was particularly cruel.  Aside from hazing rituals and general fear mongering and violence, some kids at my Jr. High had a habit of throwing pennies at kids they deemed Jews.  These "others" were thought to be miserly and money grubbing, hence the penny-dart.  Once I heard one kid ask another if he knew why Jews had such big noses.  "It's where they put all the pennies," he replied.  They enjoyed a good laugh.  The kind of laugh whereby they don't know the laugh is on them. 

I survived all that and more, hearing myself labeled a "Jew" on various occasions.  The darts still flew, but now through my teen years and early adulthood they were thrown by people who assumed I had no problem with their racist views.  Hearing the N word used casually in conversation can have the same impact.  It might even be worse because we know we should not just listen. We should say something.  There are times when I'm still not sure how to react.  Case in point.  A few years ago I was having a conversation with a woman in her nineties.  She was describing something she bought at a garage sale and how much she had to pay for it.  "I tried to Jew "em down," she said matter of factly.  I could only smile and figure she wasn't long for this world anyway.  

Sticks and stones will break bones but words can pierce the psyche like darts.

Fit To Be Tied

 I walked down to the Post Office this morning.  It's about half a mile round trip from my house or a couple thousand steps on the ol' step-tracker.  As I crossed the street behind my home and approached the main drag in my little section of North Portland, I noticed that the guy who regularly sleeps on the sidewalk was there, but just in front of him, another guy was bedded down.  Usually they just lay on or in sleeping bags, but this morning they had built a couple of little shelters from large cardboard boxes.  In fact between them they had about 4 little cardboard rooms.  

There is a motorcycle dealership that specializes in Vespa scooters across the street.  They often receive their new vehicles in large cardboard boxes and then put them on the curb for recycling.  I've no doubt that's where the "cardboard bedrooms" came from.  

I stepped deftly around the sidewalk sleepers and went on my way, but a thought struck me. My first reaction was that it's a real shame that people in what so many call the "greatest country in the world" have to sleep on the sidewalk.  Of course it's more complicated than most would admit, but nevertheless, in this land of the free and home of the brave, thousands are without the basics of living. These makeshift structures reminded me of the many "Hoovervilles" that existed during the Great Depression."  Named for President Herbert Hoover, they popped up all over the country.  People living in piano crates, cardboard boxes, and all manner of temporary shelters.  History rhymes, doesn't it?

A few more blocks of walking later, and I began to think of the history of homelessness.  I recall a college professor of mine lecturing on the concept of Social Darwinism.  In an attempt to explain the poverty, and squalor of the early 20th century, this philosophy developed in an attempt to explain and subsequently deal with these issues.  To explain the human condition by means of Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept still resonates with some parts of the political spectrum today.  Things are the way they should naturally be.  Only the fittest will survive and thus improve the condition of mankind.  It's a good excuse not to feel empathy or not to do something to alleviate the struggling conditions many have to endure.

"But it's a false equivalency," my professor said.  "Because not just the fittest survive.  Those that are merely fit, also survive.  They may not be very fit, but they survive, any way they can."  

Makes sense to me.  Those that are not the fittest, don't just evaporate, they survive, sometimes barely.  It's human nature to meet your needs.  Walk around on this planet and you find things.  Things to eat, places to  sleep.  Sure it's dangerous, and not very fun, but it happens every day in the USA.

I'd love to see this discussion make its way into the current political climate.  In fact, perhaps a question on Social Darwinism in one of the debates would shed some light on how much empathy those who would lead actually have.  Sure they'd say all kinds of things to appear sensitive to the needs of "all Americans," but I'll bet some would get all twisted up in their rough rhetoric about ridding the nation of vermin.

The weather in my hometown is changing day by day.  The rain is about to begin and the last days of warm weather are definitely over.  Pretty soon, even that deluxe cardboard won't be enough to ward off the dank, wet, weather.  But those two guys I saw this morning will be somewhere.  If not on their present spot, perhaps another that is closer to a heating vent, or a fire pit.  But one thing is for certain, they will survive.

Wonderful Mouth

 With the recent passing of my lifelong friend, Ken, I started thinking of some memorable times we had together.  Ken was an artist and extremely well read.  He unabashedly love living in Los Angeles.  He knew the city well and was a frequent visitor to galleries, museum shows, and concerts.  In high school we both shared one art class together.  It was an elective called Art Crafts taught by a rather quirky teacher.  In this class we created various projects, some required and some left to our own devices.  I remember discovering the tedium and magic of a crow quill ben and India ink in this class.  I took a photograph of the bark of a dead oak tree and painstakingly drew a tree whose truck was composed of thousands of little squiggly lines.  I got lost in the minute patterns, even writing a message of love to my girlfriend that was hidden in the fine patterns. Halfway through that school year John F Kennedy was assassinated and I vividly recall walking to that art class during the most silent passing period imaginable at a large, 3000 student high school.

But the one project that both Ken and I were required to do was a mixed media self-portrait. Many turned out like Bob Dylan's painted self portrait which later became an album. (Pictured below) However, we were not allowed to use paint We had scraps of wood, yarn, buttons, crayons, and many other "objects" with which to construct our self-images.  When completed, we would bring our creations up to Mrs. Norvell, who sat at the front of the classroom.  She would evaluate our efforts in front of the entire class, giving out criticism and suggestions.  It was during this project that Ken displayed his true contrary nature.  She somehow felt that his efforts were not reflective of his ability.  She had higher exceptions for him, perhaps because of his innate ability.  Ken would do what he was going to do no matter what.  After all, this is the guy who wore a coral colored tuxedo to the Jr. Prom while the rest of the guys stayed true to our class colors of powder blue and black. 

When my turn came to bring my project forward to Mrs. Norvell, I stood next to her chair as she gave it the once over.  Eyes and eyebrows passed muster. Nose, my most sensitive feature being larger than most, was OK.  Then came the depiction of my mouth which was rather thin and linear.  

"No," exclaimed Mrs. Norvell, "This is not your mouth! You have a wonderful mouth."  

Soon I was back at my seat ripping off the offending mouth and wondering what to replace it with and what it might be made from.  I went home that day vowing to take a good look at my mouth.  After standing in front of a mirror far too ling, I saw that my lips were indeed fuller than what I had portrayed.  Maybe my mouth was glaringly different than how I had constructed it.  Next day I created what I thought looked like a "wonderful mouth" from strips of leather and yarn.  I gave myself a sly smile and Mrs. Norvell approved.  But the damage had been done.  When she first declared to the class that I had a wonderful mouth, Ken and my other friends in the class wouldn't let me forget it.  For weeks afterward, they'd greet me with, "You have a wonderful mouth."  Laughter ensued, but in reality, I found that my self esteem improved.  The following year, I ran for Senior Class President and won!  Could it have been that wonderful mouth?

Write Now

 I've been thinking of offering a writing workshop for older adults.  My peer group now.  It occurred to me that many of the prompts I used over a 35 year teaching career would work well with mature writers.  I think that's because aside from stimulating the memory and offering some critical thinking opportunities, writing helps one save their life...literally and figuratively.  There are other simple benefits too. Even writing by hand helps maintain fine motor skills and of course, writing helps people process their thoughts.  In the words if one if my favorite quotes, "How will I know what I think until I see what I say."  Just substitute write for say and there you have it.  I don't think E.M. Forester would mind.

I'd decided to start with a simple writing strategy I'll call a childhood table of contents.  If you look at the table of contents of many books, the chapter titles are often fascinating...a world in themselves.  In my classroom, we used the Table of Contents from the popular Sandra Cisneros book, The House on Mango Street.  Most of these titles are so intriguing that you know there is an interesting story there at once.  

Take a look at this portion of the Table from the Cisneros book.  Which ones jump out at you so that you are dying to know more?

For me, it's titles like Hair, and Those Who Don't that make me want to know more.  They just sound intriguing.  

So, the next step is to think about your own childhood events and experiences and what a table of contents for that might look like.  My own personal Table  contains the titles, Do You Want To Practice Kissing, When He Robs Them, and Becks.  Anything peak your curiosity.

If that exercise is successful and my little group of reluctant writers want more, I'll follow that up with some descriptive writing activities to build some skills in writing fresh similes and metaphors, and possibly take a look at some models of various genres.  Trying to emulate some of the styles and skills of our favorite writers is always worthwhile.  Aside from building more skills, it serves to remind us how skilled there writers are and hopefully we retain fresh appreciation for them.

The longer we live, the more our memory plays tricks on us.  I'm sure working with memory will bring many confusing or contradictory experiences to the surface.  That's OK.  Writers of memoir don't have to be exact.  We are not trying to recall every exact detail from something 50 or 60 years ago.  We are retelling and recreating the emotions felt.

A Lifetime

 Disneyland in Anaheim, California, opened in 1955. For young Baby Boomers, this was Nirvana.  The popular Disney TV show had become a reality that they could visit.  All the familiar characters were there as well as the various "lands" they knew from the TV show.  You could actually go to a place called Adventure Land, or Tomorrow Land, Frontier Land and even Fantasy Land, complete with Sleeping Beauty's castle.

Two brothers down the street from me went to that opening day.  Their father worked for Technicolor and folks in the movie industry were among those privileged to go to the opening day.  My sister and I went a few years later thanks to the generosity of a New York uncle who worked for a media agency and sent us credentials for complementary tickets.  Even the E ticket coupons, the hardest to get.  I was about 10 years old and my sister 11.  We went with our parents and my Aunt Dorothy and her husband, my Uncle Clery.  They had no children but were just as eager to see this much talked about new amusement park.  

So, one day in the Fall of 1998 we made our way from the San Fernando Valley to the sunny skis of Anaheim.  Until Disneyland, the area was just about all orange groves in those days.  I recall the immense parking lot and the iconic entrance to the park.  You could see the Monorail that circled the park from the parking lot.  The future really was right here.  Once inside the gates, we decided to make our way to Main Street USA, the section modeled after small town America  in the early 20th century. To get there we boarded a replica of a horse drawn streetcar of the era.

My Aunt and I sat together on a small bench while the rest of my family sat behind us two by two.  As we made our way toward Main Street, I began comparing this streetcar we were on with the electric streetcars I had ridden as a child growing up in and around Los Angeles.  The obvious difference was there energy source.  Looking at the large draft horse pulling the Disneyland streetcar toward Main Street, I began to think about the evolution of transportation that took place during my Aunt's lifetime.  I figured she was born around 1910, and may even have ridden on a horse drown streetcar as a child.  As the Monorail circled the park above us, the entire evolution of urban transportation revealed itself before me.  I wondered, at that moment what forms of urban transportation I might see when I reached my 60s or 70s?  

Most light rail rapid transportation systems today resemble offshoots of that Disneyland train.  The BART trains of the Bay Area and the Metro system in Washington, DC, are notable examples that I have ridden.  I often think of that horse drawn trolly car from Disneyland when I see or ride them.  

II.

This past week, I got the newsletter of the Bay Area Writing Project, the organization of teachers at the UC Berkeley school of Education.  I have been active in that group of educators for many years, since the time I became a teacher/consultant offering teacher workshops to recent years with many contributions to their digital magazine which appears 4 times a year online.  The latest email newsletter described a series of workshops being offered recently at the beginning of the current school year.  What stands out is that every one deals with how teachers can adapt and/or use AI.  To be sure, AI represents a formidable threat and challenge to educators.  It's on everyone's mind.  Obviously, some training and new skill sets are on the horizon for professionals too.  If I apply the same notion of evolution from the streetcar analogy mentioned above, it looks like this.  

When I was a graduate student in the school of Education at UC Berkeley, a secondary credential was earned by completing a year of coursework and well as various requirements like taking a test on the California State Constitution.  Another requirement was to pass a test on the use of audio-visual equipment.  On the bottom floor of Tolman Hall, a media lab was set up ands various stations were available for credential candidates to learn and practice audio visual skills.  This included showing a film after threading a movie projector, setting up various forms of slide shows including those synchronized with soundtracks.   But the toughest skill was to record from phonograph to reel to reel tape recorder and then edit the recording to accompany a specific project.  When we had a few minutes to spare from our days of student teaching in the morning and attending classes in the afternoon, my colleagues and I would drop into the media lab to brush up on the various skills needed to pass the test and be fully credentialed.  Today, those skills are mostly passed.  Videos come from You Tube at the click of a mouse.  All manner of recorded material comes from a computer as well.  Bringing a tape recorder of any kind today will probably be a new experience for students.  

Today, that media lab has become a computer lab.  Bringing audio visual materials into a classroom is a hundred times easier today than it was back then.  Like that streetcar ride behind the horses, I wonder what will replace the computer lab that replaced the media lab?

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.  A recent example would be the Willie Mays shirt I recently bought.  It portrays what has come to be called "the catch." Of course I'm speaking of Mays catch of a drive off the bat of Vic Hertz in the 1954 World Series.  Make no mistake, I like the shirt, but when it arrived, the person depicted looked less like Willie Mays than I expected and the image was a bit blurry.  No Matter. It's clear enough for any baseball fan to get the point and it lets the world know I'm a fan....a very big fan.

Another sports image on a t-shirt I have is probably a rare and collectable tee that I chanced to buy while attending a basketball game on the Cal campus. (UC Berkeley)  Titled "The Play" it depicts the most famous play in all of college football when Cal beat Stanford on the last play of the game with multiple handoffs and lateral passes.  The last Cal player storms into the end zone and crashes into the trombone player of the Stanford band who had occupied the end zone thinking the game would soon be over.  It's all depicted on the t-shirt with arrows and lines, x's and o's.

In 1982, when I went to the Kentucky Derby with full press credentials, I brought home a couple of t-shirts as souvenirs.  Over the years I wore them out.  That happens with clothing you love.  My New Orleans t-shirts enjoyd the same fate.  I sure do miss my Neville Brothers shirt, but it served me well.

Sometimes a t-shirt can serve other purposes.  I play harmonica with a group of old guys who meet frequently to jam.  I need to know the key of the song we're playing so I can use the correct harp.  That's why I jumped at the chance to buy the t-shirt I saw advertised with "What Key We In" written on the front.  Int sometimes works.  

T-shirts are like bumper stickers.  They advertise our beliefs, interests, and passions.  In my 3+ decades in the classroom, I've seen kids wear many t-shirts.  Once, a kid got sent home because his shirt depicted a cartoonish character with his head up his ass...literally.  Made me wonder if any parent saw him leave for school that morning.  I could just picture him walking out the front door waving good-bye wearing that shirt.  I don't think so.

Transformational Music

 I received an email from an old friend last week.  We'd been sharing memories of a mutual friend who recently died.  While I haven't seen her in over 40 years, I do recall a brief visit when she was passing through the Bay Area in the late 1970s.  

I used to date her sister and she dated my best friend.  These were teen-age dates, mostly, but their importance and dare I say significance has surfaced since we've been talking about our lost friend.  

It's about the music.  Those dates from the mid 1960s until the early 1970s revolved around the music scene in Los Angeles.  While those years are most notable for the Rock and Folk-Rock groups that emerged, it was the small club scene that we frequented.  The Ash Grove was a small folk music venue on Melrose Blvd. in Hollywood that emerged as the place to go.  Here we saw many of the blues greats in their prime.  The irony, of course, is that many of these performers were well into their 60s and 70s and would not be around all that much longer.  

When I tell younger people today that I saw Son House, Howlin" Wolf, and Big Mama Thornton in a small club, they are in awe.  But that was reality back then.  My friend's recent email asked me to send her a list of all the artists we saw back then.  She was hoping it might jog her mind and help her memory.  So recently, I sat down and deliberately made such a list.  

On my list are the above mentioned names as well as a who's who of folk and blues that includes the likes of Lightnin' Hopkins, Doc Watson, Sleepy John Estes, Taj Mahal, and Elizabeth Cotton.  As the late 60s turned into the early 70s, there were other special shows too.  Two come to mind.  One was a special promotion called the "Angry Arts." It featured a program of writers, musicians, and graphic artists all opposed to the Vietnam war who had produced anti-war works of some kind.  

I went to one such performance and recall a reading given by Dalton Trumbo, the author of the anti-war novel Johnnie Got His Gun.  Trumbo had been blacklisted in the 1950s for his politics, but continued to screen write for various movie producers under other names.  He chose a selection from his novel to read that night. It ended with the following lines:

    What's noble about being dead? Because when you're dead mister, it's all over. It's the end. You're less than a dog, less than a rat, less than a bee or an ant, less than a whiter maggot crawling around on a dungheap. You're dead mister and you died for nothing

You're dead mister.  Dead.

Trumbo's voice rose and fell.  The last few words were delivered almost in a whisper.  Then, with the audience entranced, he delivered the last word in a loud rage.  And the lights went out.  Total blackness.  It was chilling.  

Another special show featured a bluesman I'd never heard of  until that night.  Arthur "BigBoy" Crudup was a Chicago bluesman who had made some recordings in the 30s and 40s.  He was virtually obscure until being rediscovered in the late 60s. That night, in the Ash Grove the house was packed.  In the audience were all manner of young local musicians. many of them currently playing at the many LA venues.  Who was this guy Crudup that they all turned out?  

Arthur Crudup had written and recorded a song in 1946 called "That's All Right." In 1955 an unknown Elvis Presley had taken the song and recorded it in a classic rockabilly style.  The rest is history.  Crudup had never received proper royalties but the young musicians began referring him to the "Father of Rock and Roll." They knew, and they wanted to see this seminal figure.  He died a few years later, but that night, at the Ash Grove, in a small way, he got his due.  Too bad he didn't get the money he was denied.

Time Remembered

 If someone said to me, "You look like you just lost your friend," I'd say you're right.  I wear it on my face.  While I don't like to rate things, especially friends, by comparison, (good, better, best) I did have a very long friendship with my late friend KO who died last Saturday.  60+ years is an accomplishment for loyal friendship.  So, when it ends, there is a hole that goes unfilled.  

Like all human relationships, there were ups and downs.  Not living in the same place since 1970 also threw in a few challenges.  Yet we prevailed.  It helps when a friendship this long features both participants having the same birthday.  We exchanged many fine gifts over the years.  I have books and records and a few other things that will keep KO in my life for the duration.  A note on sharing the same birthday with a friend: it's important not to get so caught up in your own birthday that you forget about the one you share it with.  That's a pitfall that one must be aware of at all times.

We met at 9 years of age during Little League tryouts.  I remember comparing our baseball gloves.  Which brand, what signature, the size and condition.  In full disclosure, I never missed an opportunity to show off my Willie Mays glove.  

Through Jr. High and High School we matured, dated two sisters at one point and survived our adolescence, the Jr. Prom, the Kennedy Assassination and the untimely death of his daughter at age 1.  Ken was an artist and read widely so he was a fountain of knowledge and introduced me to all manner of artists in fine art, music, sculpture, and theater.  He frequented museums.  When I lived in the Bay Area, his trips to visit me always included time spent at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.  

KO introduced me to art and culture and that transformed my life.  I will always recall driving through Laurel Canyon in a VW bug on our way to see some blues or jazz great in the LA clubs of the 60s.  We saw them all.  Lightnin" Hopkins, Howlin" Wolf, Son House, Taj Mahal,  et.al. KO was quiet, introverted, sort of a contrarian, and could be difficult to get along with.  I recall one fishing trip where he couldn't remember his Social Security Number so couldn't get an out of state license in Oregon.  Another time, when fully licensed, he announced that he wasn't going to do any fishing but rather sit outside and watch me fish.  Not my idea of a fishing trip, but then it was nice to have a traveling companion. Another notable example of his contrary nature was his choice of dress for our Jr. Prom.  Our class colors were powder blue and black, thus all the guys wore powder blue tuxedo jackets.  Not Kenny.  He showed up wearing an orange (coral colored) jacket.  He claimed the rental shop was out of powder blue by the time he decided to rent one, but I knew better.

In recent years we stopped exchanging holiday gifts in favor of charitable contributions to organizations that were important to us.  I've lost a few friends and former colleagues these last few years.  It certainly makes for introspection.  I love the metaphor of fingering the jagged grain of wood (Thanks Ralph Ellison) and I find myself doing just that lately.  New insights emerge, names and places fade a bit more each year, but some of the memories remain vivid.  

Accountable

 Some say we've raised a generation of "snowflakes." That is, kids who have been overprotected and are not ready for some of the harsh realities they are sure to face as adults.  To be sure, corporal punishment is not the answer, but to  toughen up many young people, some changes will need to happen.

My parents were loving people.  Perhaps why I received the "empathy gene."  Of course my personality is only part heredity, but the environment I experienced taught me to consider the feelings of others consistently.  Yet, as a child I received, on rare occasions the sting of a hand or a belt.  My sister and I called it "the strap." It was an old leather belt of my father's and it hung inside on the door of a broom closet.  Of course we weren't hit with the buckle of the belt, but that leather strap stung just enough.  Today, thinking back on those times the strap found my arms or legs, I'm mildly shocked.  It seems incongruous that kind people like my parents would do this.  Today, it would be considered child abuse by many.  

I can't recall what I may have done to get hit with the strap because I was an other well-behaved kid.  I have a non-confrontive personality, so perhaps I violated some house rule, or whined uncontrollably about something. In any case, I remember the strap because one time my sister and I decided to hang a belt of mine in the broom closet and label it as suitable for our parents.  It didn't remain there long.  

For one year in the early 1980s I taught at a predominantly African American Middle School.  It was after major cutbacks and my seniority at the high school where I was originally hired wasn't enough to keep me there for the following school year. Though I was only there for one year, I recall an experience where corporal punishment was the way to go.  

When I had to refer a 7th grade student of mine to his counselor, I was invited  to the conference.  The student was disrupting the learning environment with his behavior and testing my limits so the referral was necessary.  What I subsequently found out was that he lived with an elderly grandmother.  His parents were not in his life and his counselor, an older African American woman, knew the only discipline he'd get would be there, that day.  

After discussing the situation with hm, the counselor was assured that his behavior would improve.  Then she said to him, "you know what happens now. " He nodded and she opened her desk drawer.  Almost  automatically the student extended his hands, and she struck  him across the knuckles with a ruler.  I was silently incredulous.  But I got that this was acceptable to them.  It was, no doubt cultural as well.  

I had a friend with four kids who had his own form of reminder when one of his own needed some stern discipline.  He'd stop whatever they were doing, and get a look on his face. The kid would lower his head and he'd grab a lock of hair and give it a firm tug.  It wasn't a painful hair pull, but rather a short, firm tug. They got the message.  

I don't necessarily advocate these measures, but I do feel that those kids on the other end of firm reminders   are better off for the consequences of their behavior being accountable.  

Rhymes with Orange

 Suddenly there is new life in the Presidential race. Suddenly the Republican party has the older candidate.  The youth vote has been activated and the results is new hope and new life. Perhaps it is life that comes before hope.  

How sad that the race is so close.  How sad that a large portion of the American people cannot recognize a psychopath, a narcissist, much less a huckster.  The uneducated have a chance of having the last word.  People are wearing their despair  on their sleeves.  The orange man has already given hints that if he gets in again, he is not leaving.  We know he means business, he has already shown us who he is.  It's beyond me sometimes why his supporters continue to back him.  

Oh I know all about the red meat eating base.   They are an open book.  The orange man speaks their language.  He's anti-intellectual, crass, cruel, and fearful.  His racism and lies only feed the fire.  But what of those in Congress, or those who sit in their 15,000 square foot homes and fondle their latest tax cut?  What about those who can't stand to watch the news because it's too depressing?  Those who think the government is out to get them and question why any of their tax dollars would or should pay for somebody's college loans.  All those Socialist educators who carry huge agendas and crucify common sense with their book knowledge.

Democrats win elections when they spark movements. Witness Barak Obama, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter among others.  t seems as if a minor Kamala Harris movement is starting to rumble some thunder.  Somehow the fact that we have only 100 days left before the election might work as an advantage.  People are impatient.  They are tired of drama.  They want to relax  a bit.  With a dictator looming on the horizon, they are ready to get it on.

In all the malaise of statistics, data, poll results and trends, there is one thing I'd like to see.  What percentage of people believe that a moral compass should be a vital characteristic of their President.

Inappropriate

 Journalists and pundits warned years ago that politics and entertainment were slowly merging.  That melding seems to now be complete.  Even before actor Ronald Reagan first ran for political office there were entertainers in politics.  Some ran for office, some endorsed candidates, some simply gave financial support.  But the warning was not just about those who participated it extended to how politics was conducted and conceived.  

Last night when Kid Rock performed and Hulk Hogan spoke at the Republican National Convention, the transformation was complete.  Of course the presence of Donald Trump further strengthens the notion that politics has become entertainment.  Ratings, ratings, ratings. 

Surprised? No, this seems like a natural progression in our culture.  Perception becomes reality.  Image is everything.  You get what you pay for.  

What struck me this past week, with the assassination attempt on Trump, was the image of a defiant candidate mouthing "fight, fight, fight" and brandishing a clenched fist.  The same clenched fist image first brought to the public eye by the Black Panther Party.  Ironic? Absolutely.  Cultural appropriation? Of course.  It should not be lost how the media and larger culture reacts, or does not react to this blatant theft.  I think of John Carlos and Tommie Smith who got nothing but grief for striking that pose.  Now with a Presidential candidate's unabashed use of the symbol, the hypocrisy shines anew, brighter than ever.  

Someday, somewhere, somebody will see an image of the clenched fist and realize where it first appeared.  It could be a black and white photo of a Black Panther Party rally, or the more familiar and controversial full color photo from the 1968 Olympics. They'll probably think they have discovered something worthy of attention.  Just as some youngsters think Mick Jagger created the blues, or Elvis Presley first recorded Hound Dog, they'd realize that cultural appropriation has deep roots that make some things taboo for some and patriotic for others.

Roll On

 It was the summer of 1965. Out of high school for just 6 months, with one semester of college under my belt, I went to a pool party in Southern California.  Typical fare, hot dogs, hamburgers, and lots of dips and chips.  About 25 of us, once so close, now found ourselves beginning down multiple paths.  Some in college, some into the work force, still others into the military or soon to be engulfed by the draft.  The party was to celebrate the union of two of our number who were hurriedly wed and soon to be parents.  She, the party thrower, he soon to be shipped off to Vietnam.  

Some swam, most others stood around talking and listening to music.  The Beatles still dominated, but there were others on the horizon.  I was 19, 3 months away from dealing with my mother's terminal illness, and about to start a summer job that would pay me minimum wage: $1.25 hour. 

Most of the couples that were hanging on from high school would not last the next year.  The newly married couple would last slightly longer. A few of my male friends would drop out of college and the nationwide campus reaction to the war in Vietnam would heat up. But this early summer day was for hanging out, listening to music and trying on the trappings of adulthood. 

Not surprising was a subtle battle for what we would listen to. The radio was playing Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter, by Herman's Hermits and Mr. Tambourine Man, by the Byrds.  Occasionally, a soul singer like Otis Redding would grab our attention with hits like I've Been Loving You Too Long.  The folk music revival was just hitting stride and a new young British singer named Donovan was attracting attention.  But nothing that hit the airwaves that summer could compare to the excitement and innovation that was coming from one performer who was beginning to get some air play after having the number one song in England for many weeks.  If I tuned my transistor radio to KFWB about 10 minutes to 7 pm I could catch the top 10 in England that week.  The countdown would end at 7pm sharp so by 6:50 I could hear #2 followed by the #1 song for that week.  It was my only chance to hear Bob Dylan sing The Times Are Changin'.

The week of the pool party, another Dylan song was beginning to capture the imagination of a generation.  We'd heard it a few times and it traced its attraction to the incident at the Newport Folk Festival where Dylan was booed for going electric.  Suddenly that didn't matter.  It was about the lyrics.  With Dylan, it was always about the words.  

When the party conversation turned to politics and popular music, the tempo heated up.  Not everybody in attendance was eager to invade a country and fight a war for questionable objectives.  Not everybody was enamored of cutesy British groups with novelty songs.  The pulse quickened and my friend Kenny and I found ourselves being dragged up notch by notch defending who and what we called, "the greatest poet of the 20th century." Yeah, we said it. So what. We meant it.

We couldn't have dreamed that he would one day win a Nobel Prize, but we were ready to suggest it. Then, a copy of his latest record appeared, and we played it, repeatedly, defending our stance. 

Take this:

Qualifications

 I'd like to see some changes made. Especially in electoral politics.  Not in the counting or the campaigning.  How about the qualifying?  We are all too willing to pass tests in the classroom, for the DMV, evener skill levels like Karate or advanced degrees.  Those tests can be written or oral.  But not for political office.  Not even the highest office in the land, the Presidency.  Given the power of the Presidency, I'd like to see some proficiency standards set.  

A Presidential candidate should be able to qualify for the ballot in a few key areas. Most notable a President should be a reader.  I'd go so far as a reading list for the office.  What 10 books would you put on that list, and why? 

Given the composition of the current Congress as well as some of those who would be President, I'd like prospective office holders to pass a psychological screening test. That way we could eliminate the plethora of sociopathic contenders who seem to be attracted to politics.  Determining the mental stability of future candidates would prove both useful and crucial given the current trends.

It seems to me that when all the drama of the current political situation settles, we would do well to take stock of what we have or should have learned.  Foremost on my list will be my disappointment at how so many of the American people can be fooled by a malignant narcissist, who happens to check all the boxes of psychopathy.  It should be a national goal to teach folks how to spot one and how to dismiss one before it's too late.

Years ago, when the political situation called for it, we used to have "Teach-Ins."  An offshoot of the strategy of a sit-in, this activity would invite experts on all aspects of a topic to present vetted factual material.  Not a debate, a teach-in would attempt to educate the masses about topics of interest and concern. They were often held in great halls of education or even large theaters or concert venues. Today, they could be either virtual, or even TV specials. All are invited.  Imagine how different it would feel if we were all working with the same established set of facts that could be verified.

The more I write about this, the more I think it is needed.  The difficulty, of course, is that it will take political will to bring it about.  That's the contradiction we face.   For now, think about what we want our future leaders to be, to read and think about.  Think about what we want their disposition to be.  A national conversation would work wonders.  Not a Fireside chat.  Not a lecture.  A two-way conversation where all are seen and most importantly heard.

Let's make some changes.