The View From Afar: America for Sale

I had forgotten how many commercials there are in TV in the land of the free and the home of the brave. In the last part of the evening world news you measure stories in seconds, literally, before the commercial break kicks in. Fifteen seconds. Commercial break. Twenty seconds. Commercial break. It’s very impressive.

It seems to me that when I was young A-list actors didn’t do TV commercials. You didn’t see Katherine Hepburn riding a motorcycle selling perfume or Humphry Bogart pimping dress shirts. But today a lot of A-listers are in the bizz. I see three possible reasons. First, they love the product and want us to love it too. They beg to do the commercials. I mean, if I was asked to sell Anchor Steam beer I’d be thrilled. Second, it’s all about exposure. By seeing their faces every day on our TV screens we’ll know who they are when they show up in a movie. Problem is, as they’re breaking down in tears over the loss of a lover all I see is a perfume bottle shaped like a sexual representation of a woman’s or man’s body. Third, they simply want the money. You never can have too much money. You’d think Scarlet Johannsson or Matthew McConaughey had enough dosh. But as we know, enough is absolutely never enough.

Anyway, some of you might remember I’m a night person, which can mean late night TV. I always have my visa card ready because we’re talking deals. Things I want to buy since returning to America:

Belly Fat Pills – Self-explanatory.

Glow Candles – Glow Candles come with a remote with different colored buttons. When you push the red button the candles glow red. Push the yellow button and the candles glow yellow, and so on. Very clever and no more messy wax and fire to deal with.

Christian Mingle – If Roberta leaves me I can sign up for this Christian dating service. They all look so healthy and good. I’m pretty open, but she has to be a real Trinitarian, not a fake. Christian Mingle is no place to compromise. Heads-up gay and lesbian friends. I’m thinking this is not for you, not for you!

Daniel Diet Plan – I’ll buy this before I sign up for Christian Mingle. I’ll get a book and dvd’s where I can watch people with beautiful bodies working out and chanting “My body is a temple that honors God.” (It does remind me of an old Jefferson’s episode. Jefferson was sent into the pastors office to fire him. Jefferson says, and I paraphrase, “God said our bodies are a temples, but you treat yours like a Pizza Hut.” The pastor was more than a little over weight. I wonder if they could still do that joke today.) The Daniel Diet Plan will inspire me with biblical reasons for losing weight. Well, why not? The evangelical preacher who is selling the thing was asked by President Obama to pray at his first inauguration. It’s got to be good. Each pound lost is for Jesus. Or is it Daniel? Whatever. And I can always fall back on the secular Belly Fat Pills if Jesus and Daniel let me down. The good Lord knows I need something.

The WoggleWagGiggle Ball – This is as ball that dogs actually go crazy over. It stops them from eating your sofa when you’re out – honestly, there was a dog eating a sofa on the commercial. It’s has smells and sounds that make dogs, all kinds of dogs, absolutely love it. Unfortunately, they get so excited about the WoggleWagGiggle Ball there is the possibility that they may piss on the carpet. But never mind. They’ll be happy doing it. I really have to get a dog.

All I can say is, “It’s good to be home”.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

The View from Afar: American Absurdities

I wish I could exorcise the negativity.

There is so much good about America, but goodness there is also so much bad. After living in Great Britain for thirty years, having to some degree absorbed a European sensibility, and having travelled internationally for more than a decade, my view from afar renders some things, which Americans take for granted, as absurd and often just plain wrong. Reading about American absurdities from Britain or while visiting Harari, Prague or Hong Kong might have been troubling, but I was insulated by culture and distance. Not anymore. I’m home.

It’s been widely reported that Governor Rick Scott of Florida has forbidden Florida Department of Environmental Protection (DEP) staff from using the words “climate change,” “global warming” and “sea level rise”. While this may seem like a joke, Barton Bibler, a longtime employee of the DEP and now Land Management Plan Coordinator for the Division of State Lands, was suspended from work for a couple of days for writing in his official notes on the Florida Coastal Managers Forum in February the words “climate change.” He was also required to undergo a mental health evaluation to verify his “fitness for duty”. Apparently Mr. Bibler hadn’t got the memo.

Adam Zyglis, Buffalo NewsIt’s difficult to know how to respond. We often over use the word Orwellian, but it seems more than appropriate here. This entire event – from the governor’s proclamation to the suspension of an employee – would have made a great plot in the Big Bang Theory or any number of situation comedies. It seems Scott associates the use of the words climate change, global warming, and sea level rise as an indication of possible disease making one unfit for duty, though perhaps that is a step forward given that Republican often assume people who do not agree with them are evil.

At least some Democrat Party politicians found the whole thing ridiculous and mocked the policy. At a senate budget subcommittee, Senator Jeff Clemens (D) asked Bryan Koon, Director of the Florida Division of Emergency Management, if the state needed “climate change plans” to qualify for federal funds. He admitted he used the words “climate change” and then said “but I’m suggesting that maybe as a state, we use the term ‘atmospheric reemployment.’ That might be something that the governor could get behind”. Clemens got big laughs from senators and observers alike. (Watch the video here).

Viewed from afar, it is more surreal than funny. Surreal: marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream; also unbelievable, fantastic. Synonyms: unreal, bizarre, unusual, weird, strange, freakish, unearthly, uncanny, dreamlike, phantasmagorical.

It would be wrong to suggest that Scott believes that climate change will disappear if we stop saying “climate change” simply because he does not believe in climate change. The fact that almost the entire international scientific community and 99.83% of peer review scientific articles agree that climate change is real and caused by human activity is irrelevant to Scott and his fellow deniers. Perhaps he thinks the issue will disappear by denying the words, and in Florida maybe it will. However, I suspect the governor’s disbelief and his strangulation of language will not protect southern Florida as sea levels continue to rise.

20 states have passed “religious freedom” laws and 12 other states are considering doing the same. Their supporters assure us all that religious freedom legislation isn’t actually about legalizing discrimination, but is instead about protecting the freedom to practice one’s faith without prejudice or offense. Of course, if you are one of the people denied your wedding cake, or your birth control medications, and/or a surgical procedure because who you are and how you live offends another’s faith, I’m willing to bet it feels like discrimination.

American politicians create, discuss and pass legislation that makes it legal for some people to discriminate against other people. And quite obviously the “other people” are those who belong to the LGBT community. If I were to demonstrate biblically and theologically that serving a person of color offended my faith, I doubt very much religious freedom legislation would allow me to deny them services or products. Western societies at considerable cost have for generations fought for the rights of all people. Some have suffered during these struggles and some have died. We have established legal foundations to protect individuals from discrimination. It’s not perfect, but it is sound and just. However, we have always given religions institutions a pass, exempting them from the law, thus allowing them to discriminate. We are now giving that privilege to businesses and individuals. This is 2015. The signs won’t read “Whites Only”, but they might imply “Straights Only”.

From the absurdity of the Orwellian deletion of words to never old use of religion to justify discrimination, and everything in-between - American politicians in full flow. To be fair the vast majority of these comical, zealous and ideological politicians are Republicans. They are driven by a fundamentalist faith, a medieval worldview and, of course, power. It would be nice if I could simply ignore them, but then I remember that they are elected to office by millions of Americans who share their faith and worldview.

Viewed from afar, it all seems bizarre, unlikely, unreal.  Standing outside it seems ridiculous, unjust, dangerous. It is almost inconceivable that such people would be elected to office in the UK and Europe, while in American they thrive – fundamentalist, ideologues, science deniers roaming the halls of power. If this were television the show would be called “Politicians Say the Craziest Things”. It’s all very baffling, in this the self-proclaimed greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

From a distance I could shake my head and laugh. Unfortunately, I now have to deal with them up close and personal.  It least I moved to the Left Coast.  

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

The View from Afar: In Support of the Friendly American

One thing we human beings can do in our sleep is characterize and stereotype people from other tribes and nations. In Britain there are several stereotypes of Americans that get good play. Here are a few that I encountered while living in the UK.

There is the Crazy American. The media goes out of its way to find stories of Americans do utterly crazy things, and since there are 300 million Americans it is not difficult task. Here I mean crazy in the sense of wacky or silly or off the wall, not clinically insane. You know, the kind of story about the American who lives with his pigs, in his house. Or the American who spent a zillion dollars on her pet’s funeral. Or the American who actually likes the movie Forrest Gump.

There is the Ugly American. While authors Willian J. Lederer and Eugene Burdick may have made the phrase popular through their book The Ugly American, it is not difficult to find clueless, brass, arrogant, conceded, violent Americans. The loud conceited Americans in a quiet Welsh café. The gun carrying, gun threatening person on main street America. The American who with unbridled passion declares he or she would rather see you die alone in your home then provide health care to citizens.

There is the Wonderful American. Here we find Americans at their best. The best in sports. The best in science. The best in writing. The best in open democracy. It’s the America that can do no wrong.  

All these stereotypes hold some truth while, of course, lacking complete truth. I suspect my British friends would recognize them all and will have at various times subscribed to each one with varying degrees of enthusiasm. But I would be so bold as to suggest that none of my British friends embraced the Have a Nice Day American.

I lived in Britain for almost thirty years and never stopped wishing people a nice day. I think I did it because it was a tiny part of Americana I didn’t want to give up and because I knew it probably annoyed the British. No, I didn’t go out of the way to annoy the natives of my new home. It’s just that every time I heard British people saying how shallow and insincere Americans are when the say Have a Nice Day, I protested, and my main protest came in the form of wishing them a nice day. (Actually, it’s a wonder I had any friends at all in Britain. It speaks to how good are the British people.) It’s not that the Brits are insensitive. They are not. It’s that such overt expressions of everyday emotions are not part of the cultural DNA.

Of course the salutation of Have a Nice Day can be shallow. It can be insincere. It can be spoken without any genuine concern whether or not anyone anywhere has a nice day. However, and not wanting to be too sentimental about it (sentimentality is so utterly horrible), the phrase can also be a pleasant, friendly, if not genuine, expression that helps us all get through the day.

My return to America has been punctuated by an encounter with both private and public bureaucracy. Banks, driver license department, real estate offices, telephone companies, etc. It never seems to end. Question after question.  Request after request. I’ve been chronicling my frustrations on Facebook and the other day moaned that it seemed almost impossible for me to demonstrate to the satisfaction of the bureaucracy that I am indeed a citizen of Seattle, Washington, United States of America, Earth, Solar System, Solar Interstellar Neighborhood, Milky Way, Local Galactic Group, Local Virgo Supercluster, Observable Universe.

And yet in the midst of all the demands and frustration the people who actually do the jobs, the people who cannot set policies and procedures, have been to the person friendly and nice. So add to our list of stereotypes the Friendly American, who may indeed wish you a nice day. An example.

Yesterday my wife and I went to the Department of Licensing here in Seattle because the Washington Driver Guide told us that is where we take our multiple choice test. After waiting in line we discovered that Washington had outsourced the multiple choice test and the driver test to private companies and that we would find a list of those companies on the Department of Licensing website. And there they were, private company after private company, most offering to give us both tests after we signed up and paid for driving lessons. It warmed my heart to know that my tax dollars are helping private companies make a profit doing the State's job. But here is my point. The woman sitting at the desk hour after hour, day after day, in front of a long line that never seemed to shorten, the woman who had to answer a constant flow of questions, the woman who had to negotiate people's confusion, frustration and sometimes anger, seemed always to be friendly. I watched her as I inched forward. Person after person got a pretty great smile and the advice they needed. When we got to the desk, I admit she stared at us for a moment as if we were from Planet X when we explained we had UK driver licenses and wanted a Washington driver licenses. But once it clicked what our situation was, she was great. When I thanked her and said, I hope you have a good day, I genuinely meant it.

So all hail the Friendly American and boo to the stuffy old Brit who doesn't get it.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

You Actually Can Go Home Again

I’m sitting in Seattle on a cold rainy day. Seattle is a long way from London, practically and culturally, but the weather is not dissimilar. To be fair, however, since arriving in Seattle two weeks ago, we’ve only had three days of rain. The rest has been beautifully sunny. I left the United States in 1987 and now I’m back.

I had an uneventful flight from London, for which I thanked all the gods human beings have either discovered or created, depending on your point of view. It was the smoothest flight I've had in years. Out of nine and a half hours, maybe two or three minutes of gentle turbulence. Unfortunately, when I got through the airport high tech security system, my wife, Roberta, was nowhere to be seen. I couldn't get her on her cell (see how I stopped using the word mobile there - adjusting already) because having a UK phone I had to call as if I were in the UK. I kept putting 011 instead of 001 in front of her number. Dah!

Welcome to SeattleSo, having returned to Gunland to live where a good number of regional and national leaders think the law should be based on and grounded in their particular interpretation of their particular sacred text (I really need to stop saying things like that now) I was stranded in an airport. I did have a plan, however. If after two hours Roberta didn’t appear, I was going to let my little boy surface, sit in the middle of the floor and cry hysterically. I realized (see how I used the American spelling there) a couple of minutes after hatching this plan, that it might make more sense to have her paged, which I did. She appeared within 60 seconds. 40 minutes later we were being greeted by a nice woman who owns the small apartment we’re renting on Lake Washington with a great view of Mercer Island and Mount Rainier with what turned out to be a nice bottle of red wine.

So I’m back in the United States of America after almost 30 years away. I have concerns about this place I call Gunland: the evening news is either utter banality or rightwing propaganda; the place is governed by anti-enlightenment religious nuts; not understanding the meaning of socialism most Americans are offended by the idea of providing healthcare for human beings; the majority of people believe in angels but not evolution. I could go on, of course, but something even more disturbing has happened. Something I feared even before leaving Heathrow. I can't find my favorite shampoo.

After their morning ablutions, most people like leaving the house smelling like a piece of fruit, say a lemon. My dad, for example, always smelled like a lemon. Lemon shampoo, soap, deodorant. Or maybe a combination of fruits - mango and strawberry, say. Or if fruit is not their thing, they might go for coconut or mint. I hate this about myself, but I hate smelling like a fruit tree all day. In the UK I used products made by the company Simple. No scent anywhere. Perfect! But I despair because here, no Simple. What's a real man to do? I’m not sure, but definitely not mint. Maybe I should go for mango.

And this is it. I’m confronted with the very big and the very small as I transition back into American culture. Because I’ve been away so long my credit rating in the US is abysmal and I can’t find my preferred bar of soap. It’s extremely difficult to get mortgage approval and I’m in desperate need of a haircut. Given the relationship between social security and Medicare I can’t even begin to think of healthcare until my social security appointment on April 7th and can’t find my favorite concoction for heartburn. I went into a bank affiliated with one of my banks in the UK to ask, given that I had been a good and responsible customer with its affiliate, if I could get a credit card and a young man, maybe 30, said without hesitation, no, that my finances is the UK have no relevance, leaving me feeling like a foolish child for even asking, and I have to remember to spell American. The big and the little. Oddly, and I think this is true, I find both equally stressful.

SeattleI have to say, however, that since arriving in America my spam folder has been more interesting than it was in the UK. I’ve received more than a few emails from woman who want to make contact with me, to chat. It seems they are single, often having just gone through a difficult break up, and would love to chat. Obviously, and to my slight surprise, my excellent pastoral skills are known far and wide. So you can understand that I feel a little guilty when I say I just delete their messages instead of helping them, with a chat. But quite frankly, I’ve just got too much on my plate right now.

Slightly more interesting is the email notifying me of my court date. The subject line: “DALE, Notice to appear in Court #0000992990”. The message begins, Dear Dale, and explains that I am to appear in court on March 16th and that all the details of my case can be obtained by opening the attachment. Since I read this on March 18th and it began Dear Dale and not Dear Mr. Rominger, I’ve decided to let it pass. Still, getting arrested in the next couple of days would not be out of line with the American welcome I have received thus far.

Finally, I received a message from FedEx saying they couldn’t send my package but if I opened the attachment and printed the labels all would be well. Since I have never asked FedEx to do anything for me, I hit delete.

Yes, with all due respect to Thomas Wolfe, you can go home, but the welcome may be less than inspiring.

My next posting might be from the big house where I may be serving twenty to life.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

What’s In a Story Within a Story?

When Drake Ramsey arrived in a small northern England town on the bleak western coast, he had one aim in mind. To write the great Proust-in-outer-space science fiction novel in six months. Drake chose the particular town precisely because it was small and isolated. No distractions taking him away from his writing. Or so he thought.

Of course, the whole idea of a Proustian sci fi novel was pretty silly, and from the very beginning Drake had trouble finding his way. What would be futuristic madeleine sponge cake be like, for example? Would anyone get the madeleine sponge cake reference anyway? And having never travelled through the galaxy in a spaceship himself, Drake had trouble relating. Not surprisingly, he found distractions at every turn, from the foot-faulting doctor tennis player he watched from his upstairs front window to the miserable weather. Things only started to come together when he got caught up in the murder in the Skinburness Hotel. I suspect if Drake hadn’t had a murder to solve he would never have written his novel and would have ended up back as a report on the Fremont Argus News in Fremont California, instead of moving to New Orleans.

It was always my intention that Drake’s novel would be a story within the story of my novel. The purpose was simply. To have a little fun and to reveal Drake Ramsey to the reader. I like Drake and his Proustian sci fi novel. It was nothing but fun to write about his novel as it reflected his experiences on the wet, windy coast of northern England. Drake’s protagonist is Chad Steel, and as Drake met and fell for Zuri, Chad Steel meets and falls (if Chad Steel can fall for any woman) for Rashida. As it turns out, Zuri is quite a strong person who you don’t want to antagonise. So, one of my favourite lines in Drake’s novel about Chad Steel and Rashida is: “Rashida was always packing heat on her right hip, and on her left, hidden steel.”

I make no apologies. The story with the story was my way of having fun, exposing Drake for who he is, and, hopefully, entertaining the reader. As for taking a shot at Proust. Well, have you read In Search of Lost Time - all of it?

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

A Highly Unusual Mix

A highly unusual mix of influences – detective story, Proust, science fiction, the paranormal, romance – combined to make a pager-turning story with a most satisfying ending.
{Amazon Review}

Question: What do gumshoe, science fiction, murder mystery , and ghost story have in common?

Answer: The Woman in White Marble.

I’m not sure I started out with the aim of mixing all these genres in one bowl, but that’s how it ended up. And given the first flurry of reviews on Amazon and Powell’s Books it seems to have worked. (See: The Back Road Café)

As I said in a previous blog (The Simple Fusion of Memory and Imagination), I’m not sure where the gumshoe voice came from. I had a fairly clear idea of who my main protagonist, Drake Ramsey, was and the gumshoe voice just appeared in the writing. In truth, of course, I’m having fun with the genre, and while some have compared it to Raymond Chandler, this book was written in 2014 looking back and playing off a genre that found its form in the1930’s, 40’s and 50’s. The voice in The Woman in White Marble is primarily, I think, humorous and a means of exposing who Drake Ramsey really is, with all his overblown confidences and insecurities.

While the gumshoe pretension may be slightly hidden, the sci fi element of the book is not. The sci fi in The Woman in White Marble is clearly a parody of genuine science fiction. I wanted to have fun with it, to make the reading of the book more enjoyable, and to give the reader a clear window into the soul of Drake Ramsey. The ploy is fairly common: a protagonist writing a novel. However, what Drake writes is so enjoyably and obviously about his own life, we end up laughing while getting to know Drake himself. I believe it works because of the story-within-a-story element, which reviewers have enjoyed. Our gumshoe reporter and his sci fi adventure become one in the mystery that is The Woman in White Marble.

The murder mystery was always at the heart of the book. Here too I have a little fun with the genre, actually discussing the “locked room mystery” as the characters try to solve it. It’s more Agatha Christie then Patricia Cornwell. Even so, the murder mystery genre goes hand in hand with the gumshoe voice as Drake aids the police in solving the murder in the hotel.

As for the ghost, well, that’s a twist most people might not expect, so much so that my editor insisted I let the reader know there was a ghost involved on the first page. In the first paragraph I wrote: “Trust me. I’m telling it straight up—and believe you me, it’s a story worth telling. Murder, a marble statue with a past, and one hell of a sexy ghost.” Truth is, there were rumours that the real life Skinburness Hotel had a female ghost running around its halls, so as the story took shape in my mind, it was hard to leave her out.

With that, however, I will say no more on the oft chance you haven’t read The Woman in White Marble. After all, at the heart of the book, someone gets murdered and someone gets caught. I shouldn’t be revealing all in a blog.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

That Simple Fusion of Memory and Imagination

I’ve been asked how I came up with the idea for The Woman in White Marble. The answer is fairly simple and somewhat personal. You’ve probably noticed the book is dedicated to Peter Crook. Peter was a good friend of mine who died a little over a year ago. He was the manager of the Skinburness Hotel in Cumbria, Northern England. Yes, there really was a Skinburness Hotel, though Peter probably wouldn’t have recognised the hotel I described in the book. Unfortunately, the Skinburness is now derelict, boarded up and falling down. Only lack of funds has kept the owners from demolishing the old building. Very sad. Anyway…

I took part in Peter’s memorial service and a couple of days later I was lying on the sofa watching TV. I say watching TV, but I was really thinking about my relationship with Peter and didn’t much notice what was on. Suddenly, something on the TV sparked with my memories, and within sixty seconds or so a broad outline of a story appeared before me. For the life of me I can’t remember what I saw or heard on the TV and it’s not really important. And I don’t want to imply that the “sudden appearance” was somehow mysterious or mystical. It’s just that in a minute or so my memories and imagination joined together in the notion of story. In fact, my imaginary hotel bears little resemblance to the actual hotel, though I knew the real hotel well. While there were rumours that the Skinburness Hotel was indeed haunted, there was no sexy statue in any corridor. And while it is possible a hotel with a long history may have experienced a death or two, I never heard of any. I certainly never heard of a murder in the hotel.

Peter and Jane CrookI lay on the sofa for several minutes thinking about the story broadly taking shape in my mind, then got up, turned off the TV, went upstairs and started writing. I have no idea where the gumshoe voice came from, but once it got started I enjoyed it so kept it up. It really was Drake. It took me awhile to settle on Drake’s last name, but when it came it fit. The other character names fell into place fairly easily. Why was Zuri Manyika from Zimbabwe? Well, I’m not sure. I’ve been to several African countries several times and Zimbabwe was one of the most interesting, difficult and inspiring. I like the idea of bringing into a story characters and settings beyond what we’re used to, and I’ve seen first-hand some of the handiwork of Zanu-PF. So, Zuri ended up from Zimbabwe. And the statue? Well, she had to be beautiful and have an unusual and dramatic history. I’ve been to Prague several times and thought it interesting and fun to take Drake to the Czech Republic for a little fact finding that would lead to intrigue. As for the story-within-the-story element, I very much like science fiction and thought it would be a humorous way to help the reader know Drake. Obviously Drake’s novel, The Woman in Blue Skies, is a comment on the author himself.

I like to think that Peter would have really enjoyed the book. We did take long walks sorting out the world. And we really did complain about the weather a lot.

Copyright © 2015 Dale Rominger

Dickens versus Malthus ~ It Must be Christmas

"Scrooge had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total   Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, Every One!"

It’s become somewhat of a personal tradition of mine to watch the film Scrooge, the 1951 version with Alastair Sim, on Christmas Eve night. It’s a great film and Sim is absolutely brilliant. During the scene when he awakens transformed, indeed liberated, it is hard not to laugh and tear up at the same time. And, the film is very faithful to Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol,[1] much more so than many other film versions. I encourage you to watch it. But having said that, I really encourage you to read the original story. This is no sweet Jesus and adorable Tiny Tim Christmas story. In many ways, it is not for the faint hearted, and unfortunately it is still relevant today. So, here are some thoughts on A Christmas Carol...

One of the saddest events in popular culture is the continual distortion of a great literary character through the romanticizing of Tiny Tim, transforming him into a sentimental, sweet character, whom we can first pity and then exploit, using him like a sponge to soak up our spilt Christian goodness. In fact, Tiny Tim is one key to "Keeping Christmas well". He is a character of almost biblical proportions. In the child Tiny Tim, Dickens was representing all the people, but particularly those who are suffering in some way – Tiny Tim was, of course, both ill and poor.

Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843, the first of five "Christmas Books" written from 1843 to 1848. In each book a central character suffers from a loss of faith in human dignity, but is eventually brought to realize the value of the human spirit. The transformation each character goes through, and we must call it a transformation and not simply a change of mind or even heart, is accomplished through spirit intervention, or in other words, by spiritual means. It may not be stretching it to say that each character is transformed by a salvation through the Christmas spirit. In the preface to A Christmas Carol, Dickens wrote he hoped the story would "Awake some loving and forbearing thoughts, never out of season in a Christian land." In fact, he wrote the story because, in his opinion, "Keeping Christmas well" was out of season all the time. Dickens' ultimate hope was, of course, that through the power of his narratives the reader would, like the main characters, be transformed as well.

A Christmas Carol is not about a sweet little crippled boy, but instead is about the social conditions of Dickens' Britain. The story had (and still has) a strong social message. In and through the story, Dickens was appealing in general to the people of Britain to lead less selfish lives, and in particular to the rich to take seriously their duty of care for those less fortunate. He had visited Cornish tin mines early in 1843 and saw children labourers at work. He visited the Field Lane Ragged School in London, one of several institutions trying to educate hungry and illiterate children. After these experiences, he wrote A Christmas Carol in six weeks. During the writing of the "hymn" he said in a letter that he "wept and laughed and wept again...and in thinking walked the black streets of London...when all sober folks had gone to bed," indicating how deeply disturbed and moved he was. In fact, the magic and mystery of his literary hymn exhibited a "strange mastery" over him, but a mastery of joy and love which he was impatient to return to each working day.

Dickens had a lot to weep and laugh about. For years the poor had not only been neglected by society, but also lived under the burden of a social philosophy and political policies that actually justified that neglect. In 1803 Thomas Malthus wrote the essay entitled Principle of Population. In it Malthus argued that any human being that could not be supported by his or her parents, and could not provide labour that was useful and required by society, had "no claim or right to the smallest portion of food." He went on to say that such people also had "no business" even being in society and that their death would "decrease the surplus population."

When society refuses people food, shelter, and work, there is only one place for them to go, or to be, and Scrooge, the character representing the Malthusian position, had no difficulty in saying precisely where or what that place was -- death. For him, Tiny Tim, whose parents could not support him and whose ill health made it impossible for him to become a good labourer for society, could simply die. When just before Christmas Scrooge was asked to make a contribution to help provide for the "Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present," people in the thousands lacking common necessities and in the hundreds of thousands wanting common comforts, he responded:

"Are there no prisons?"

"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman laying down his pen again.

"And the Union Workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. Are they still in operation?"

"They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not."

"The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then? said Scrooge.

"Both very busy. sir."

"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I'm very glad to hear it."

The gentlemen not giving up explained to Scrooge that such provisions hardly "furnished Christmas cheer of mind or body to the multitudes" and that they were collecting funds to give the poor "meat and drink, and a means of warmth." But again Scrooge refused to give saying he wished to be left along. He then said, in full Malthusian passion:

"I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned--they coast enough; and those who are badly off must go there."

"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."

"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."

Dickens wrote a Christmas carol, that is a literary hymn about the birth of Christ. He wrote about the hope found in one child, a child who came for all children and, of course, all people, through the character of another child, a child who represented all those people without place or food, swept away by society. The first child, Jesus, represented the salvation of all people. The second child, Tiny Tim, represented all those in need of such a salvation.

We are reminded of the need precisely because of the neglect of all the poor, ill, broken-hearted. It becomes clear, even through our sweet Jesus and Tiny Tim, that if the salvation of all people is to actually include the poor, the suffering, the diseased, the weak, the dispossessed, the neglected, that that very salvation will have to cause the downfall of a way of life that both justifies and actualizes exclusion and neglect, a way of life which which is rooted in both the intellectual philosophies and the political policies of the day. We can be quite certain that such a salvation will be "spoken against", or more properly, "contradicted," and, no doubt, with force. With the vision of the people of grass in our minds and a crippled, ill, dying child in our hearts, we can hear the echoes of at least one contradictory voice: But are there no prisons, and Union Workhouses, and the Treadmill, and Poor Laws, and if that is not enough, then let them die, decreasing the surplus population.

Hope and warning are powerfully told when Scrooge met the Spirit of Christmas Present. As the evening passed the Spirit took Scrooge to homes where they stood besides the bedsides of the sick who, nonetheless, were cheerful. They visited those who struggled and were still patient living in great hope. They visited those who lived in poverty and were rich in spirit. And they visited the almshouses, hospitals, prisons where people experienced misery but had not "made fast the door and barred the Spirit out" thus allowing the Spirit to enter their misery and give the gift of blessing.

As the long night unfolded before him, time and space seemed to lose meaning for Scrooge, except that he noticed the Spirit was growing visibly older. He asked if life was so short for all spirits and the Spirit replied that his life would end that very night at midnight. As the chimes rang three quarters past eleven, with death approaching, hope turned to warning. Scrooge saw something in the folds of the Spirits clothing...

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?"

"It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here!" exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

"Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooge could say no more.

"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!" cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand toward the city. "Slander those who tell it ye! Admit if for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end!"

"Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Scrooge.

"Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no work-houses?"

The bell struck twelve.

Dickens speaks with passion and power about the Spirit of Salvation. We sing the Spirit's blessings, for where he visits there is health, joy, home, and hope. Where the Spirit smiles, needs are met and comforts are offered. Dickens does not, however, sentimentalize the vision, for wrapped within the very clothing of the Spirit of Salvation is the misery caused by human thought and deed. We shutter when we realize that the grotesque monsters revealed are the results of human exploits. We reel at the creatures before us because they are in fact human beings and, once again, children. We desperately reach for a self-defense, any self-defense, when we are reminded that such human suffering is our responsibility. We ache when we see how the suffering cling to the Spirit and look upon us with fear.

Dickens would have us believe that the salvation offered in Christ's birth is a liberating power that necessitates change in our philosophies and policies. If we were to "keep Christmas well" we would experience the wholeness of salvation's blessings. We would be filled with joy and pierced through the heart. In this world, both must be ours.

In A Christmas Carol Scrooge is liberated. he learned to keep Christmas well:

Scourge had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, Every one!

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

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[1] The movie makes some changes from the original text, of course. The film gives more backstory telling of Scrooge’s rise in the business world, adding the character of Mr. Jokin, Scrooge’s greedy and corrupt mentor. In the film Scrooge’s fiancés is named Alice and worked with the homeless while in the book her name is Belle and her work is not mentioned. And in the movie we are told that Scrooge’s mother died while giving birth to him which lead to his father’s resentment, that his sister Fran died while giving birth to her son, thus resulting in Scrooges distance from his nephew. In the book Fran is much younger than Scrooge and the cause of her death is not explained. See: “Comparison with source material”.

It’s Not My Fault ~ It Was Drake

A couple of weeks ago I posted a kind of Christmas ad for my new book on Facebook. I wrote that I had received an email from a very nice elderly gentleman (with a weight problem and a questionable wardrobe) who suggested that my book The Woman in White Marble would make an excellent Christmas gift. He further encouraged me to include a “special offer” whereby I would mail people a signed copy of the book while significantly undercutting Amazon’s best price. I realise Facebook friends don’t want to be harassed by people trying to sell them goods and services, but I thought it was a bit of fun and might even make me a few quid. As it turned out, a few quid was spot on. However…

Rosalind, a friend who lives in Wigton, one of the towns featured in the book, did email requesting a signed copy at the breath-taking low Christmas price. She also said that she would happily try and sell copies to people in Wigton and Silloth, Silloth being the town where my protagonist lives, and where I once lived years ago. I told her she could try, but that she had better read the book first. I further noted that other friends who had lived next door to me in Silloth, friends who have read the book, told me that if I ever wanted to visit Silloth again I’d need a couple of big strong body guards. A couple days later Rosalind emailed again saying she had only read the first three chapters but that now she understood.

Poor Silloth. My protagonist, Drake Ramsey, really doesn’t like Silloth. He had come to this small northern England town from the San Francisco Bay Area. The contrast between the bay city and a Victorian town sitting on the windswept Solway Firth is striking. It was California sun versus northern England wind and rain. Drake mocked Silloth throughout the story, but as I said to Rosalind, when it comes to a certain kind of mockery Silloth is low hanging fruit.

The thing is, Silloth isn’t as bad as Drake makes out. OK, it’s obvious. I was from the Bay Area and ended up in Silloth. It was culture shock. And yes, while Drake certainly isn’t me, I wrote him into existence. To me, Silloth was a sad little Victorian town that told stories about how Queen Victoria had almost visited Silloth but went to Blackpool instead, but if she had...Though people worked hard and had hopes for the future, when I was there the region’s economy wasn’t great and I wondered how the kids in town would ever get out. They didn’t have a lot of bootstraps to pull up. And the weather in Silloth really was horrible (the year I moved to Silloth was the year I gave up running because of the almost constant pounding winds). But the people there were great to me, took me in and accepted me. Some of the best friends I’ve ever had I found in Silloth. So why, discounting the weather, was I so mean to poor old Silloth?

Silloth, CumbriaFirst, I wasn’t. Drake Ramsey was. I’m pretty sure that if you haven’t written fiction you won’t buy that. But it’s true. It’s a work of fiction. Drake’s bitching about Silloth, and his use of bad language, are part of who he is as a character. Trust me, he wouldn’t be near as much fun if he hadn’t loved to hate Silloth. On the other hand, the people he meets in his fictional world, he likes, loves and respects.

Second, the Silloth in the book doesn’t exist. It’s a fictional town in fictional world. Yes, yes, yes. There is a real Silloth that I experienced and a couple of the scene in the novel actually happened to me. But fiction grows out of life experiences, it does not replace them. I’ve never met Drake Ramey or Zuri Manyika and I never will. I made them up. The Silloth they know is not the Silloth I knew. Still, some might suggest that I as the author who gave Drake his thoughts and words was pretty damn mean to the good folks of Silloth.

I’ve heard authors say that you can’t worry about offending people, that if you do, you’ll never write anything. There is always someone out there to offend, particularly now when being offended is so much in fashion. The Woman in White Marble is a fun book that has fun with its main character. There was a point towards the end of writing the last draft, when Drake was getting ready to leave Silloth for good, when I almost had him say that Silloth wasn’t so bad, that indeed it was a nice little place after all. I resisted the temptation because it would not have been Drake Ramsey. It would have been Dale Rominger. I'm glad I resisted the temptation for Drake to be nice. It would have been out of character. Me, on the other hand, I like being nice, especially to nice people. Did I set out to offend people? Of course not. Am I sorry if I did offend some people? It depends.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

Execution Preaching

The day before World AIDS Day, Rev. Steven Anderson, minister of the Faithful Word Baptist Church in Tempe, Arizona, preached a sermon entitled AIDS: The Judgment of God. There’s a good chance you know what he said. He received pretty good coverage in the media, the video of the sermon being made widely available. Turning to the biblical text Leviticus 20:13 he told his congregation he knew how to free the world of HIV and AIDS by Christmas. Well, I tell a lie. He said that his solution would render a world “90 something percent” free of AIDS– by Christmas, mind you. It’s best I let Anderson speak for himself:

"It was right there in the Bible all long — and they're out spending billions of dollars in research and testing. It's curable — right there. Because if you executed the homos like God recommends, you wouldn't have all this AIDS running rampant."

Rev. Steven AndersonHere we go again. Another god-fearing soul wanting to murder human beings in the name of a god. A lot of words have been written about the relationship between violence and the monotheistic faiths of Christianity, Islam and Judaism. And sure as the day is long there are a lot of “good” Christians, Muslims and Jews out there either advocating violence or actually involved in violence.

The good Rev. Anderson not only preaches violence and hatred, he preaches stupid. First, the violence and hatred. There are a lot of men and women looking for solutions for their varies hatreds, and every once in a while some of them get the power to actually put their “solution”, which usually means killing a particular group of people, into action. Don’t kid yourself, people like Anderson are potentially dangerous or are actually dangerous, perhaps even more so when they wrap their hatred up in the sacredness of the nation, or God, or both. Here we have a Christian minister actually suggesting a particular group of people should be executed. Nothing like listening to a preacher call for genocide. 

Lest you think I exaggerate, don't forget Pastor Scott Lively, head of Abiding Truths Ministry and of Defend the Family International, in Springfield Massachusetts, whose anti-gay bigotry made it all the way to Uganda. No one is in any doubt that Lively’s interventions in Uganda significantly helped in the creation and passing of the Anti-Homosexuality Act in that country. It is also known as the Kill the Gays Bill. Not surprisingly, since it’s passage attacks on gay people in Uganda have increased. The Lively bill originally called for the execution of anyone “engaging in homosexuality.” After an international outcry, and threats to reduce aid funding by some nations, the Ugandan government changed the penalty for being gay from execution to life in prison. (Interestingly, a lawsuit against Likely was filed in federal court in Massachusetts for crimes against humanity by the Center for Constitutional Rights on behalf of Sexual Minorities of Uganda. Thus far the First Circuit of Appeals has denied Lively's request to have the lawsuit tossed. See Adicting Info)

Second, Anderson's stupidity. I wanted to say that his hatred and violence simply clouded his judgement, but I don’t think so. What he said is stupid, for even hate-filled people surely know that the vast majority of people around the world with HIV and AIDS are straight. Straight! Straight!! Or using Anderson’s language, are heteros. Even if every gay person on the planet suddenly disappeared, we’d still have a world of AIDS.

As a response to the likes of Anderson, moderate and progressive Christians often proclaim that the good reverend is not really a Christian at all (as is true of moderate and progress Muslims and Jews responding to their violent and hateful members), thus shielding Christianity while at the same time condemning Anderson. I don’t buy it. It’s too easy. What people are really saying is that Anderson is not a Christian like they are. Or, he is not the kind of Christian they like. Saying he is not a Christian is an act of self-deception (both individual and corporate) which denies the relationship between violence/hatred and religion.

Anderson is an ordained minister in a leading and large Christian denomination. He no doubt claims he was called by God/Jesus to his ministry and the community of faith affirmed that calling through his training and ordination. He has been called to a local church. There is a good chance his congregation not only like and respect him, but agree with his biblical hermeneutics and his theology. I’m sure he reads his Bible and prays faithfully and at least tries to live a life in harmony with his perceived relationship with the Christian God he loves. His faith is personal, but is also affirmed by the community. He has done and is doing most everything a moderate or progress minister did and is doing, but with different interpretations, conclusions and actions. So, on what grounds do people declare he is not a Christian? By what authority do they make the declaration? I suspect Anderson would say the same about them: that they are not real Christians.

My point: Anderson is a Christian, but of a sort many of my friends and acquaintances don’t like. He represents and is affirmed by hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of other people who say they are Christians. He is not some unique aberration. If he were, he would easily be dismissed. However, he is not. Many can make sound philosophically and theologically arguments to undermine his faith of hatred, but they cannot simply declare he is not really a member of the club. Everyone needs to own up to the fact that running through Christianity is a vein of violence/hatred that needs to be confronted and not denied. If you don’t like what Anderson says, then you have to do the hard work. A poster on Facebook saying he is not a Christian just won’t do it.

The Andersons of the world need to be exposed, and then argued into defeat. He will not go away because moderates and progressives don’t recognise, or don’t want to recognise, the darkness in their own house. Some light needs to be directed in his direction and that job belongs to all those good and faithful moderates and progressives.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

I Can’t Breathe

Michael Brown, Ferguson, Missouri
Eric Garner, New York, New York
Tamir Rice, Cleveland, Ohio
Rumain Brisbon, Phoenix, Arizona

Michael BrownThe above three men and one boy (Tamir Rice was 12 years old) were all black, unarmed and killed by white policemen. Eric Garner was strangled to death, the others were shot. Each case was different in detail. In the case of Michael Brown there were conflicting witness statements while the death of Eric Garner was videotaped for all to see. The police had a prolonged struggle with Rumain Brisbon. Tamir Rice was playing with a replica gun in a park when he was shot dead. It must be that in each case police officers felt threatened in some way. Still, all the victims were unarmed African Americans who were not restrained and arrested but instead killed. In the cases of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, the police officers responsible for their deaths were cleared of all charges by grand juries. I believe the officers who killed Tamir Rice and Rumain Brisbon have yet to face a grand jury.

While the deaths of these four men are headline news, and the Brown and Garner killings have led to protests and riots due to the respective grand jury decisions, many more black men have been killed by the police. It may be that in the United States an African American male is killed every 28 hours by police, security guards and vigilantes. This statistics seems unbelievable, however, the report suggests that the number of deaths could be higher. (See also AlterNet)

Eric GarnerFacebook and Twitter are full of comments and posters regarding the deaths of Brown, Garner, Rice and Brisbon. Those representing left of center positions support the Hands Up and I Can’t Breathe protests and condemn the police involved in the killings. They emphasise the militarisation that is taking place in police forces all of the country. They give examples of white armed murderers who have been subdued and arrested, not shot and killed, complete with names and photos. They highlight statistics of white versus black crime and arrests.

On the right, the police are given full support and the possible or actual criminality of the men killed (with the possible exception of the young boy Rice) are emphasised. They remind us that not all police are bad and that being a policemen or policewomen in America is not for the faint hearted, that they are sometimes killed while serving you and me. They reminds us that police often have to make split second decisions which can result in injury or death to themselves and others. They also point out that black people kill white people as well, and like the posters from the left, names and photos of the victims are supplied.

Those who know me know that I am left of center on most issues, though how far left does depend on the particularities. I have no difficulty agreeing with the right that police are killed in the line of duty, that it is a very difficult and dangerous job serving our communities, and that most police are good people. And let’s be honest. The United States is a society that is saturated with weapons of all kinds, that the country has an extremely high death rates by shooting, that in many states people can openly carry weapons while in others they can carry concealed weapons, and that in Stand Your Ground states it is quite legal to shoot someone dead in the street because you feel threatened. (For example, the Tampa Bay Times analysed Florida’s stand your ground law). A better name for America is Gunland.  (See The Guardian and Wikipedia on gun ownership and deaths.)

Tamir RiceIt is difficult to dismiss history and statistics. Foundational to the creation and development of the United States are genocide and slavery, mass killing and racism. While it is difficult to articulate the social, economic, legal, psychological, and spiritual impact of such a beginning over 200 years later, it is clear the country has not yet overcome its genesis. It can’t be coincidental that Native Americans and African Americans disproportionately live lives of poverty, racial profiling, discrimination,  incarceration, killing, and injustice in a nation that never tires in telling itself and the world that it is a country of laws. And that it is. The question is, however, is the United States a country where all have equal access to the legal process and justice? The statistics would suggest the answer is no. Law does not guarantee justice.

One of the right of center Facebook posters that does not sit well with me says this: “If you don’t want to be shot by the police, don’t break the law.” This is wrong on so many level. If the United States is a nation grounded in the law, then everyone has a right to the legal process, even if they are suspected of committing a crime or have been caught in the act of committing a crime. Citizens have the right to arrest, trial and verdict, and if found innocent freedom, if found guilty punishment. Obviously there are cases where this is not possible. When police and citizens are in real danger sometimes deadly force is necessary. However, statistics would suggest that white people are more likely than black people to survive long enough to be arrested.

Rumain BrisbonInterestingly (ironically?), the United States now has a African American president. President Obama has been criticised for his formulaic responds to the grand jury decisions in the Brown and Garner killings (the United States is a country of laws, etc.). Cornel West of Princeton University said on CNN that Ferguson marks the end of the era of Obama. Some say as a black man he should have done more, while others say he can’t do more precisely because he is African American. Either way, America is once again deep in racial strife and if Facebook and Twitter are at all representative, the lines are drawn in bold deep colours.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

Big Tex Bar-B-Que

As many of you know, recently my friend Gerry and I drove from San Francisco to New Orleans. When you drive across the US on the freeway system – in our case the I 10 – the major exits are much the same. You will find a few gas stations, almost always including a Chevron and Shell station. There will be motels and you can pretty much count on a Motel 6, a Days Inn and a Comfort Inn – Gerry and I preferred Motel 6 simply because it’s cheaper. (When the Motel 6 franchise started it cost $6.00 per night per person. Those days are gone, of course, but the name lingers. Can’t really call it Motel $39.99.) And, of course, you will find restaurants, usually including a MacDonald’s and a Denny’s.

On one particular day we set our sights on the exit to Willcox, Arizona because it was near a national park where we planned a short hike. Exiting the I 10 we headed straight for the Motel 6 and checked in. We dropped our bags and headed out for the park. On the way we passed a restaurant called Big Tex Bar-B-Que (In The Old Railroad Car Historic Downtown Willcox) which looked interesting and bragged of  having the best ribs in the world. I’m not a ribs man. Too labour intensive and messy for the reward. But Gerry loves ribs. The restaurant itself is an old railroad car attached to a back building which looked interesting. Downtown Willcox consisted of a block of restored buildings: Big Tex, a nice bar, and various shops. It actually did look nice, but it wouldn’t take but five minutes to see the whole damn thing.

After our hike we stopped back at Big Tex to check out the menu before heading to the motel. A very confident (in that good American way) and rather attractive waitress asked if she could help. I explained we were interested in coming for dinner after we went back to the motel to clean up and could we see a couple of menus. She handed us menus saying we could take them with us and then, with a teasing smile, also said that we had plenty of time before dinner to take a shower. It was clear that showering before having dinner at Big Tex was not obligatory. I thanked her and then we headed back to the I 10 and the exit to our motel.

After showering we went to reception to ask if there was a way to Big Tex that avoided heading back to the freeway. I young heavily tattooed guy, who called us sir (still getting used to that), looking bored but not unfriendly, drew us a map as he gave us directions: “Turn right at the light and left at the second light. You’ll see Big Tex on your right.” He looked up with both a sad and comradery smile and said: “It’s no problem. We’ve only got two lights.” I thanked him and then asked if the food was any good. He said it was great, loved the burgers, and the beer was good too. That was good enough for us.

When we got to Big Tex it was packed, but we found a table in the railroad car which was ideal. The same waitress we met early remembered us and we had a good laugh as she explained the menu and what beer was on tap. She wasn’t’ exactly flirting, but nonetheless she lifted our spirits. The guy at Motel 6 was right. The food and the beer were great, especially Bit Tex’s special beer batter French fries. We revelled in the not-Denny’s-or-Macdonald’s-atmosphere. Big Tex was local. No matter where you go, Denny’s and Macdonald’s re never, and can never be, local.

So, if you ever pass through Willcox, Arizona do stop at Big Tex. It’s an oasis of authenticity on a American freeway road trip.  

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

New Orleans or Bust

Went to Meteor Crater west of Flagstaff this morning. Really interesting and impressive. Huge crater formed in 10 seconds upon impact. Best preserved meteor crater on the planet. We then caught I17 South towards Phoenix. We basically drove off the Colorado Plateau at 75 miles per hour dropping several thousand feet. By the time we hit the bottom it was 100F.

I loved driving south singing along with the Eagles and Credance Clearwater Revival watching the mountains get closer.

We hit Phoenix, turned left onto I10 and headed east. Called it a night just west of Tucson and landed in the biggest Motel 6 I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of Motel 6's. I told the young woman who checked us in that when I was in my twenties I stayed in Motel 6's when it cost $6.00! (British friends, thus the 6). She just smiled and I realised she must of heard that from a thousand old farts. Oh well.

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We left Willcox, Texas early this morning (and yes Willcox has two l's). Beautiful morning driving through west Texas - very little traffic at 80 miles per hour until we reached San Antonio (though I must say there was a LOT of road kill). For our sing along we reached way back to the Kingston Trio. I have to say, some of their songs would never be written today! For starters the Dixie Chicks would probably sue them. Times they have a changed (there was one song about an ugly sister who got married while her more attractive but shy sister was turning into a spinster - the Trio pleaded for some man to come along and save her).

Unfortunately, we hit Houston at rush hour so found a Motel 6 in west Houston. Confession: I'm getting tired of Motel 6 and long for the elite luxury of say a Holiday Inn Express.

Tomorrow we reach New Orleans and we both are looking forward to getting out of the car and on to our feet. I suspect finding the hotel may be challenging, but then blissful walking.

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New Orleans, Louisiana!

We left our hotel in west Houston at 5:20a.m. to beat the morning commute. It worked, though there was a hell of a lot of traffic nonetheless. It was nice entering Louisiana. The I 10 is for miles a low flat bridge over swamp land. It goes in for ever. Really beautiful. After driving 2,647 miles we entered New Orleans and drove straight to our hotel - I was navigating. Hotel is OK. It would have to be pretty bad after all those nights in Motel 6's to be disappointing.

New Orleans is really interesting. Lots of homeless, so if you're rich I'm afraid you'll have to mingle with the folk. And there's more fortune tellers and tarot card readers in one place than I've ever seen. Obviously the music around most corners in the French Quarter is great. Now time for rest. I am not a morning person! 5:20a.m. - you got to be kidding.

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I guess in all cities there are areas where almost everyone goes and places where some of us shouldn't spend a lot of time, especially after dark. Today in New Orleans it was a lot of the first and a little of the second. Obviously the French Quarter belongs to the first. Always fascinating and often beautiful in an old world kind of way. We took a walking tour with the museum (really good) and the guide was telling us about Formosa termites being introduced to the city (a serious problem) when the USA military brought back equipment from the WWII Pacific war effort. The termites hitched a ride. Anyway, a member of our little group asked if Formosa was near Taiwan. I kept my peace.

By the way, the Spanish when they ruled New Orleans were in the "French" Quarter as long as the French were when they ruled. And, though Andrew Jackson and the Americans are credited with beating the British at the Battle for New Orleans, apparently the Brits actually won, but the Americans took the land anyway. Some royal British screw up (historians, you better check that, our guide was a real, and wonderful, character).

Finally, the folks in New Orleans say the city has four F's: Fire, Floods, Formosa Termites, and FEMA (FEMA being added after Katrina).

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The apartment is on the corner of Ursulines and Roberson. The other day a funeral band, followed by what I think is called the second line of people dancing, came up Ursulines and turned on Robertson. Apparently, if I had wanted to, I could have joined the second line.

We went to the Tremé Coffeehouse this morning. Nice place and very friendly. Roberta arrived and brought with her the gizmo that enabled me to transfer my photos from the camera chip to my. So...the Tremé Coffeehouse.

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Interesting morning in the Tremé Coffeehouse. The owner, Tracy, asked the guy at the next table to me, Mark, what time I should appear at the Candle Light on Wednesday night to hear the Tremé Jass Band. Turns out the band is scheduled for 9:00 but never starts until 9:45 so I should enter at 9:30, introduce myself to the woman behind the bar and order a beer - a beer because they can't mess with the beer. Tattooed and pierced Mark has a little girl - a real cutie - and he worries that when she reaches the age of rebellion she might buy a pants suit and get a job in a bank. Mark's an apprentice to become a tattoo artist. He was practicing on a light board in the Coffeehouse. His wife is a teacher who also writes fiction. I told him why I was in NOLA, gave him a free digital download card for The Woman in White Marble, and then we exchanged emails. It was all a lot better than reading about religious fundamentalist anti-science right wing Republican ideologues in the paper.

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Woke early, bought a paper and headed to the Tremé Coffeehouse. On the way I took a pic of my house and a banana tree across the street. I haven't seen Tracy, the owner of the Coffeehouse, in three days. A young woman with writing on her arms took my order. Two days ago it seemed to positively pain her to help me. Today she was all smiles and friendliness. Was it her, me, or both of us two days ago?

After paper and coffee I wandered down to the Quarter (I've gone native). I bought beignets at the Cafe Du Monde then sat and listened to a three man band. (Question for my fundamentalist friends: why did the Intelligent Designer make things that taste so great so deadly?)

After beignets and jazz I went to Voodoo Authentica, as one does. Bought the paperback Jambalaya by Luisah Teish -"A marvellous blend of memoir, folk wisdom, and Afro-American belief." I also bought a Juju Guardian. As I carried the colourful doll out of the Voodoo Center I remembered buying a wooden carving of an Indian god while in India. A fundie Christian told me my home would be forevermore possessed by the devil. The poor man would have fainted if he saw me with a New Orleans Voodoo juju guardian.

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Here's a heads up. If you want to experience NOLA jazz down and dirty then skip Bourbon Street and by all means avoid the Hard Rock Cafe. Go instead to the Candlelight Lounge on N Robertson in Tremé on a Wednesday night to hear the Tremé Brass Band. The Lounge is a smallish rectangular room, humble to say the least. To the left as you enter is a small "stage area" and a bar with ten or twelve bar stools. The rest of the room has a dozen tables covered with red table cloths. In the back is a folding table across from the toilets. On the table is food - looked like stew of some kind served in a plastic bowl. Don't serve yourself. You'll get a friendly ear full from one of the two women who work the bar and tables. As soon as I entered, and everyone did a quick check to see who walked in, one of these fine woman was asking me what I wanted holding my hand. This is a down and dirty place, no place to be sensitive. Don't expect a glass with your beer. It would be embarrassing to ask for one. But it's friendly and real.

I sat at the bar and drank Dixie beer. The band was scheduled for nine and began shortly after ten, which apparently is the norm. They were great and in this small space wonderfully loud. In no time forty or so people were crowded in front of the band dancing, including the two women serving us. The sax and trumpet liked playing in the crowd. 

The Lounge was filled with locals and visitors like me. We had old and young, white and black, male and female. Sitting next to me at the bar was a young couple from Denmark living in Germany. Great guys who bought me a beer. Great conversation. Great music. Great fun. Great experience.

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Went to a community festival today. Local art, food and open houses welcoming visitors in to have a look around. Really fun and interesting. A great, and loud, youth choir. This truck was sitting outside a small restaurant.

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Made it home safe and somewhat sound from New Orleans. Almost missed my connection in Newark but made it with a breath to share.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

Pursuing Both Knowledge and Happiness ~ The Impossible Possibility

I read the paper every morning, which is not necessarily the cleverest thing in the world to do. The other day I was confronted with these headlines:

Keep HIV-positive migrants out of Britain, says Farage
Cuts in funding to the WHO delayed response to outbreak of epidemic
Advances in NHS care ‘going into reverse’
How British agents stoked satanism fears in Troubles
‘I just watch and feel pain’ – Kurds look on helpless as Kobani teeters
Suicide bomber targeting Shia group kill dozens in capital of Yemen
Couple in court over refusal to get children vaccinated
Beijing calls Japan’s robotic cat subversive
Second shooting fuels Ferguson rage
Eurozone is ‘at risk of recession’

That was, of course, just an average day and the headlines can get a lot worse. The first thing I do each day is read about murder, torture, rape massive death, war, disease, injustices, utter nonsense, failures, incompetence, and the potential extinction of all life on planet earth, and yes, that includes us (if you think that last bit is an exaggeration you are not keeping up – think methane for a start).  Why would any reasonable, rational, sane person begin his or her day like that? Would that person expect to be happy? So why do I do it?

At the heart there is a dilemma of pursuits and goals. The dilemma is this: a clash between the pursuit of knowledge (the telos of which is to be informed) and the pursuit of happiness (the telos of which is to be happy). It is a dilemma because both pursuits have prima facie value but do not easily coexist. Put simply, it is difficult to be happy and to be knowledgeable at the same time. As the philosopher Slavoj Žižek said while answering questions on The Guardian website: “If you want to remain happy, just remain stupid.” I myself, referring to a friend who also travelled extensively, wrote in “Swanning Around the World or Passing Through the International Non-Places of Planet Earth” in my book Notes from 39,000 Feet: “I asked him once if he were happy. He said that he wasn’t. That he'd seen too much and knew too much. And like me, he couldn’t forget a damn thing.”

I’m uncomfortable with the words “happy” and “happiness” because of what they now imply. Happiness more than not refers to a rather superficial and temporary emotional state that we long for, if not lust after. Again quoting Žižek: “Happiness was never important. The problem is that we don’t know what we really want.”

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against happiness even when superficial and temporary. I would rather be happy than sad in this sense. And as an American the "pursuit of happiness" is part of my intellectual and emotional DNA. However, when speaking of the pursuit of happiness I, and Thomas Jefferson, the Committee of Five  and the Committee of the Whole of the Second Continental Congress responsible for the Declaration of Independence , mean/meant something more than fleeting good feelings and sensory delight.

For Aristotle happiness was pursuing a life of just action and virtue. Greek philosophers believed happiness could only be found in community. Simply put, happiness as virtue and justice is realised in community, not in solitude and feelings. The Founding Fathers, heavily influenced by past philosophies and enjoying a rather comfortable life, did not define happiness as an individual sensory experience, but as doing good in public life. After all:

Jefferson declared that the pursuit of happiness was an inalienable right, along with life and liberty. The story goes that Jefferson, on the advice of Benjamin Franklin, substituted the phrase "pursuit of happiness" for the word "property," which was favored by George Mason. Franklin thought that "property" was too narrow a notion. (See The Atlantic) 

In short (and this is really short!), happiness means one’s sense of well-being and dignity gained through living in and service of the community and to civic life. I would add that happiness also includes that sense of peace that can run deep within us, and while sometimes ephemeral, is nonetheless significant, relevant, and worth pursuing. I suspect this is not the happiness that Žižek was referring to on The Guardian website.

So, if I understand happiness in this way, the question arises: Can I find such happiness without knowledge? The answer is obviously No.

But once again we are confronted with a dilemma: Knowledge is necessary for the virtue of happiness, and yet, knowledge can be, and often is, depressing and the cause of unhappiness. What to do?

First is to distinguish between the two uses of happiness: One an solitary emotional state and two virtue and just action in community. My wide screen internet connected high definition TV makes me happy. A good bottle of wine makes me happy. Sunshine makes me happy. Sex makes me happy. My nice home makes me happy. Coffee in the morning really makes me happy. And fair enough. But none of these things can withstand the onslaught of the morning headlines. However, remembering that that which I truly want – peace, dignity, justice, community – just might.

Interestingly, the word “pursue” does not just mean to follow or to chase after. It also meant, at least in the past, an occupation, or practice, or indeed a vocation. “So ‘the pursuit of happiness’ means something like occupying one’s life with the activities that provide for overall wellbeing. This certainly includes a right to material things, but it goes beyond that to include humanity’s spiritual and moral condition.” (see First Things) The pursuit of happiness is more a vocation grounded in our corporate life, than a nice feeling and/or sensory pleasure.

Now, I’m fully aware that words alone may not make the difference. I still read the paper and it still gets me down. I also know that without shelter, food, health care, and work it is almost impossible to find any kind of happiness. But I guess I’m admitting that the pursuit of knowledge is slightly more important than my happiness. Not everyone would agree with that, but there you go. I don’t agree with Žižek that happiness, no matter how you define it, is unimportant. However, I am saying that there are things more important, one of them being the pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps I can deal with the knowing as long as I pursue virtue and justice in my community.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

Zuri Manyika and the Zimbabwean Diaspora

One of the main characters in The Woman in White Mable is a Zimbabwean named Zuri Manyika. Zuri is part of the Zimbabwe diaspora, having been sent by her mother to live with her aunt in New York City when she was eight years old. She quickly became a good American girl, at first out of survival and later out of love for her adopted county. The transition needed to go from being a little girl living in the Highfield area of Harare to growing in New York City separated from her mother and her friends are only hinted at in the book. However, you can assume they were substantial. While I did not write about that history, I am nonetheless indebted to No Violet Bulawayo, whose book We Need New Names, gave me a sense of what that transition might have been like. Anyway, Zuri was educated in New York, went to graduate school at Stanford University, and became a professor and researcher in African, African American, and cross-cultural studies at Loyola University in New Orleans. Zuri is smart, strong, and yes beautiful. She is a survivor. I have to say, if it doesn't sound too pretentious, I like Dr. Zuri Manyika.

 It’s fair to ask why I chose to have a main character, becoming involved with an American while they both were staying temporarily in a small windswept town in Northern England, be an African from Zimbabwe. The African bit was always a given, for reasons I can’t really explain. I just knew she would be from Africa. Zimbabwe is a bit more complicated, however. I’ve travelled to a dozen African countries, many of them several times. I enjoyed and valued my experiences in each (with the exception of Angola – I always hated going to Angola, though my contract there was a great guy whom I liked). So why Zimbabwe?

I guess Zimbabwe holds a special place in my heart, and a number of things made that so: I have friends in Zimbabwe; I have Zimbabwe friends living the diaspora here in England; I have seen people living through the collapse of their society while still maintaining hope; I’ve seen empty shelves in empty stores guarded by the military; I have stayed in Harare and visited roundhouse villages far from the big city; I’ve heard Zimbabweans sing. I could go on, but you get the idea. I have a sense of “knowing” Zimbabwe, though obviously my knowledge of the country, what it means to live there, and what it means to be part of the Zimbabwean diaspora is limited. Still, as I thought of the character, it quickly became obvious to me that she would be from Zimbabwe. Her name followed.

 The Ears of the Hippo, 2013 Zimbabwean artist and sculptor Dan Halter’s collaborative work.* I have three Zimbabwean friends living in England. All are accomplished; two are in the ministry and one in education. I emailed one of them, Wilbert, the other day asking him to speak to me about the Zimbabwean diaspora. Here is some of his response:

Most Zimbabweans living outside of the Zimbabwe are economic refugees. They go to other countries seeking safety and economic opportunities. Some have established themselves in their new homes so much that they have little to no desire of returning to Zimbabwe. Those who want to go back are not prepared to go under the prevailing conditions.

Not surprisingly, those in diaspora are considered fortunate; they managed to escape Zimbabwe before a catastrophe ruined their lives. As Wilbert said, you can therefore “see how they proudly carry that mental image of being the better ones.” Having said that, all members of the diaspora experience a huge burden to help their families in Zimbabwe and they do so when and to the extent they can (in many African countries it is not unusual for almost every family to have at least one family member living in Europe, the U.S., etc. sending money home). Again as Wilbert said: “They are forced to offer this help considering that no matter what status they have in diaspora, they are still better than their fellows back home.”

It has been estimated that possibly 4 million Zimbabweans have left their country. The diaspora has a 95% literacy rate in English and a very highly educated adult population. The main languages spoken are English, Shona and Ndebele. (See Zimbabwean Diaspora)

This is the soil from which Zuri Manyika grew. She is intelligent, strong and proud. She speaks English and Shona. She has survived the heartache of being sent away by her mother as a young child. She has no intention of returning to Zimbabwe to live, but she sends funds home for her mother and visits as much as she can. She has suffered under the hands of the Zanu-PF and has seen her brother murdered Zanu-PF thugs. She has been betrayed by those close to her. And when she is angry, step back. She is really worth getting to know.

I can see Zuri clearly in my mind. Hopefully you will too if you read The Woman in White Marble.

Copyright © 2014 Dale Rominger

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* A woman refugee crossing the Limpopo to escape destitution and tyranny, her baby swaddled on her back, her belongings on her head. See: African Alchemy.