Hard for me to sit quietly...

Michael Brown's shooting death by a Missouri police officer has sparked what, to some, seems to be a national outrage, but to a group of citizens of Ferguson, Missouri, the reaction to an aggressively out-of-control teenage offender. Many have written so-called think pieces, but at the heart of it all, it's important to remember, that although Brown has been touted as a symbol for racial injustice in America — and yes, he was  a human being, but as evidence may suggest, even a flawed one. Even in the fierce debate and sometimes slanted media firestorm that has surrounded Brown's death, we must keep Brown's humanity in perspective. That same argument must be applied to officer Wilson's situation. Should we allow those, who we've delegated to uphold order in our streets, to be subjected to much less. 

Just one last thought before I move on, how many of us have been able to examine all of the evidence that the Ferguson grand jury was called on to consider. And consider it in the great detail that they were able to apply. It's not to say that Brown's death should be not mourned. It's a great loss for his family and friends and should be seen as such. But he is not yet ready for sainthood.

Recently a friend of mine and his wife were the subjects of a home invasion, during which they were beaten, cut, and threatened with death. When the invaders left the house momentarily, my friend locked the door behind them. Whereupon, the invaders, realizing that they had been locked out of the home, shot through the door to regain entrance. In the interim my friend and his wife had sought refuge behind the door of their bedroom. The invaders burst into the room and my friend, who had recovered a weapon that was hidden in the room, was forced to shoot the young man charging into the room. That young man later died or was left to die, it is uncertain which… His parents will mourn his death. I'm sure his humanity will also be considered in the media. However, I must also think of the parents of my two friends. They will also go through mourning. They will mourn the loss of a feeling of security and safety that a home should offer. And that is to say nothing regarding the personal attack and loss of innocence their children were violently subjected to.

I lived in a nation more peaceful than the one I now live in. I lament and mourn its loss. And I contend that reactionaryrism on either side is not the answer. Strident voices from left or right do little more than drive us further and further away from a chance at moving the perceived peaceful home of the past into the present and projecting it into the future. 

Motorcycles and Trabants....

It was about this time in the evening on Veterans Day 1989, which was celebrated on a Friday because November 11 fell on a Saturday. Kathy had arranged for one of her mega shopping trips to buy such things as baskets, porcelain, and crystal at shops and stores close to the Czechoslovakian border. My job was to drive our 'blueburb' of happiness, our shiny, blue Chevrolet suburban and to work my miracles at providing lunch from the various bakeries and butcher shops.

After a full day of shopping, we were on our way home on the autobahn on a poorly lit section between Nürnberg and Heilbronn. It was then that we noticed some dim taillights. Thinking it was another one of those German long-haul rigs, notoriously poorly lit, we began complaining and comparing it to similar, but much better lit, rigs on American highways. Amid snarl and gripe we realized that it was not a truck at all. Rather a motorcycle carrying a family and their luggage. It was a family speeding away as best they could from East Germany. Borders had just been opened in the last few hours. Then we began noticing similarly laden motorcycles and those strange little East German cars. The Trabant, often referred to as the worst car in the world. Some were simply left abandoned yards into West Germany. Those still on the highway were equally laden in proportion to their size. However if I had to choose between motorcycle and Trabant, I would have reluctantly chosen Trabant. From the traffic on that autobahn, it seemed as if the entire population of East Germany were moving to the west.

What I and the other occupants of the suburban were witnessing was a great escape. An escape now made so much easier and safer by the opening of the border between East and West. Those cars and motorcycles carried entire families and their belongings. We sat warmly ensconced in our comfortable car, laden not with needs but with luxuries as we witnessed these peoples' flight to freedom.

That is an evening forever indelibly etched in my memory. Later that month or perhaps later into the winter, I made a deal with some acquaintances and friends who had access to the wall in Berlin to bring me several small pieces. Unnecessary but cherished mementos of that time in history, a time never to be forgotten.

To me Veterans Day like Memorial Day is a very solemn celebration. I thought that I was over this, but I'm not.

Let me take you back to 1970. I was working at Zama hospital in Japan. I'd been transferred there from Madigan Army Medical Center on what was then called a levy. Groups of soldiers from various commands meeting a particular criterion were selected for a particular assignment. The Army was looking for personnel, particularly medics, who had not yet had an overseas assignment and I was one of very few of my rank who had not been overseas. I was sent to the Zama, Japan, to work as a nurse there. A couple years before I arrived, the hospital had been expanded from a dispensary in response to the 1968 Tet offensive in Vietnam.  So from the time of my arrival in August 1970 until the following January, staffing was so thin that we were working 12 hours a day seven days a week. During that time I was working as the second shift charge nurse on a ward dedicated to head and neck surgery. One of the patients on my ward had been transferred from the psychiatric ward. He became unruly sometime after midnight and I attempted to call for the assistance of the nursing supervisor we affectionately referred to as the "ramp tramp." During that call I was hit several times on the left side of my head. Luckily the "ramp trmp" heard the commotion over the phone and came running to the ward. Because I'd been hit with, as it was discovered later, the receiver of the phone, a skull series was done which was followed by a brain scan. The tentative diagnosis put me on the medevac flight to the states. And in doing that, I left my many friends and fellow workers, my buddies, at Zama hospital.

I think that many who have been in the military will tell you that they do what they do not out of patriotic fervor, but for their buddies. So now I was leaving mine behind. I'd already lost one of my friends, who I had gone to school with in San Antonio, to the war in Vietnam. Now I was leaving a whole group of buddies behind. What followed and found me in the stateside hospital I had been admitted to were stories of a wholesale transfer of medics from Japan to Vietnam. Those stories were followed by others about the death and mutilation of my buddies while they were in Vietnam. Simply stated I felt guilty. I had abandoned them. So it is that now I can't watch Veterans Day or Memorial Day celebrations without a great amount of emotion.

I served, but please don't shake my hand. Soldiers don't like war, but they will defend their buddies to ensure that war does not find their doorstep.

There must be a better word than "solemn." 

Who am I anyway?

I guess we all know that all these little questionnaires on Facebook about intelligence, trivia knowledge, etc., are biased by the very fact that they are written by a human and that the evaluation program is written by human with biases. So do I know who I am? Well enough I think. My opinion is I don't need someone or something telling me what I already know.

I was going to say that I use Facebook to keep up with people. But then I thought, "Maybe what folks are trying to do with these inane questionnaires is to reveal to us, the viewers/readers, who they think they are." If that's the case, perhaps I should pay more attention. But that's as far as it will go. I'll know that you're 65% Girly or that you're a Disco Diva or whatever. However, I contend that if you want to know who I am, come see me or I will try to get to where you are. Fortunately some of this has already happened. I've been able, through the medium of Facebook, to set up a couple face-to-face meetings.

Personal conversations are so under rated. Or maybe I'm wrong. Is there a questionnaire for that?