To thine own self be not true

I've come to discover that I don't much like the phrase, be true to yourself. I find it ultimately, as I find so much else, conditional. Left unexamined, it begs a lot of questions, the most important of which is, what if you're a jerk?

I mean, if a guy's a jerk and he just stays that way, isn't he being 'true' to 'himself'? Why shouldn't he? He would be being true to himself. But we don't say that. We tell him, don't be such a jerk.

So I'm officially kicking a whole phrase into the pile of meaningless words (if unexamined) such as peace, freedom, education and so forth. I assert that you should not be true to yourself unless and until you have become a better person. That means asking yourself and answering honestly what actions and beliefs will make you positively better. Before you do that, I suggest that you should not be true to yourself. A child will always be a child unless he grows into adulthood. And jerks will stay jerks until they evolve past that.

The responsibility to speak well

We Americans boast routinely about free speech, being so proud of the right that we put it smack at the top of the Bill of Rights. So, perhaps, it should be. But there are unfortunately degrees to which it must be seen negatively.

There are folks who opine that free speech means the right to say offensive things. They forget that there are two ways in which someone is offended: either when the listener is a fool, or when the speech in question is genuinely offensive.

No one has a moral right to voice offensive remarks solely for the sake of making offense; that is simply rudeness at best and insulting and vulgar at worst. To say that they have such a right under the guise of free speech is really only to hide irresponsible behavior behind a pretty face. As rights only grow from responsibilities, it is reasonable to argue that the right to speak freely comes from the obligation to speak truthfully, in the reasonable interests of ourselves and the general society, and considerately, so far as circumstances may allow.

Still, the only way to really stifle morally offensive speech is censorship, and the problem with censorship is that it is only good when good people are in charge. When bad people hold the reigns, then good and necessary free speech will be prohibited. It is a risk we cannot take.

In the end, though, no one has the right to say offensive things, but merely the practical option of expressing them freely. No one has the right to be wrong in the truest sense of the term, but only the free will to be in the wrong. Until we understand that, we really won't understand the importance of a well regulated freedom at all.

Rights must be viewed in their proper perspective. They are not, not a one of them, open ended and subject to mere personal interpretation. We may treat some select few of them as absolute, but only due to abject necessity. Actions which beg the true nature of free speech do not promote but instead denigrate the right. They make us less than we can be and less than we should be. We should be good and decent people.

Great Grandpa James

I tell tales about me Pops. I tell tales about me Grandpa Joe. But have I yet to tell tales about me great-grandpa James?

They says he could raise more hell without drinkin' or cussin' than anyone that ever was. He was a small man, it's true, less than 5'3", but that ne'er stalled him. He backed away from nuthin. I been told he participated in a thousand fights, and he lost them all. Each and ev'ry one. He opined one day, "If I find a guy I can whoop, I'd stay close by that guy, I'd follow him all over and whoop him each day". That's an Irish tude, idn't it?

But he remained just the same a dedicated peacemaker, never engagin' in battle save when necessary, no matter how often necessity occurred. A true, just peace, he believed in. And folks respected that.
In late 1800s west central Illinois where he was a farmer like so many, the barn dances circled from farm to farm each Saturd'y night. Many families and personalities competed poorly those days, and some to a disturbin', measured acceptance. Arguments and such, threats almost to McCoy-Hatfield levels, existed everywhere. Some tribes refused to appear at the weekly festivals when certain others intended to arrive; it was an upsettin' scene.

When it was me great-grandpa James turn to host the soiree, he sent out notice. Ever body was invited, and ever one must play nice. And perhaps most importantly, ever soul must attend and observe the rules. Ya know what?

Each body attended. Each family observed the rules. And indeed, a good time was observed by all.
A good time was had by all. It just depends sometimes, ye see, on the force of personality to influence attitude.

Sam and Joe

As I take my morning walks these days, I always pass Sam's house. When I do I always think of his relationship with me Grandpa Joe. It was, ah, an interesting friendship.

Sam would come by the old barn regularly. His mission seemed to be to needle Joe. It must be admitted, he was very good at that.

Once Joe had me younger brother painting a car of his with a sponge brush and a can of off the shelf paint. Now, I know that's not the best way to paint a car, but it was Grandpa's car and Patrick didn't mind to get paid to paint it however he was told. Sam happened by and exclaimed emphatically, "You can't paint a car like that!"

"The hell I can't!" Joe replied with an incredibly equal incredulity. And the fight was on.

Another time Sam was paying a visit and Joe was going on about something or other which concerned him. When he finished his rant Sam remarked sullenly, "Ah, I don't care, Joe".

Joe barked in response, in an incredibly accurate and proper response, "Yeah, but I do!"

"I just said I don't care!" Sam yelled in reply. And the fight was on.

Similar events occurred countless times over the years. Sam would show up, a conversation would start, sometimes slowly, sometimes explosively, and those two old coots would end up arguing, howling at each other over some kind of nonsense.

The darn thing is, I think they both looked forward to it.

The dally in the alley

I spent an interesting Saturday night wandering around a local event known as the Dally in the Alley. It started years ago as, well, a dally in an alley, a big party where people sold things and communists and anarchists met to discuss how to change the world. Now it blocks off two streets and seems to concentrate more on selling baubles and trinkets and playing load, annoying music. I’m sure the reds and the anarchists were still there somewhere; the one value the music had was that it drowned them out.

Rarely have I seen such an eclectic mix of folks. Mostly it was weirdos from years ago and drunk college students simply out to party. More than once I wanted to tell one of the oddballs: ‘Hey, the sixties called; they want their tie-dye back.’ All were harmless enough though, despite the occasional sneer I got when passersby noticed I was wearing an Army T-shirt and a Military Police cap. Yes, I wore them to provoke, I’ll admit. Yet other than the sneers, nothing. It’s just as well. Aging hippies and drink addled sophomores wouldn’t be particularly challenging adversaries. It would have been fun, though, to have one little altercation. Just like cow tipping. “Hey, Fascist, what’s with the Army stuff?’ Then you just push them over and they flail and moo on the ground.

They had good beer, which was really all I went for. I had a nice bohemian ale from a local microbrewery which went down well. The guy manning the taps was one of those sneering at my attire, but he took the four bucks for the beer from me quickly enough. In fact, as he sneered, I asked for the brew, and his entire demeanor changed. He promptly poured it, and thanked me with a broad smile for the purchase.

I had made a point after all. Say all you want about the USA, but one hypocritical thing rang clear in that den of leftist iniquity: Capitalism rules! We are all capitalists at heart.

Red dog

Joe would always hold him by his lead, pronounced leed, that old red dog. And old Red Dog, he was waiting patiently all the time, holdin' himself back, chompin' at the bit. Never pulling, never a strain on the leed. Waiting to speed down that alley, very certain himself, wanting to be sure to protect Pops and Grandpa Joe from all the evils which might lie ahead as they made their way to the old barn. Then Joe would release him, and he would tear down the alley to clear it of dangers real and suspected. I saw that a lot.

You see, Joe had been threatened at the old barn recently, me grandfather havin' been held up at gunpoint twice within two weeks shortly before he discovered that dog. He had been surprised before then. He would be surprised no more.

So he found old red dog somewhere. And he would be surprised not again.

I've no idea no more where he found that old dog. I ain't yet seen a dog looked so unusual as he, even down to his fire red coat. Square head, medium body, medium build, he was an unusual dog. A mountain fiest, perhaps, thought that is a shot in the dark. He was too stocky. That old red dog loved me Grandpa Joe anyway, an unusual ideal itself. He would protect him.

Joe himself marveled at the how much the dog loved him. That old dog listened to all he said. That old dog stayed still in the old barn mostly during the day, but would quietly follow a suspected soul daytimes until it left, without being instructed. That impressed Grandpa Joe.

Joe would say, 'Hey dog' and the dog would play with him, dancing and prancing as Joe repeatedly said the refrain. 'Hey dog' was a mantra.

I saw it many times. That old red dog loved Grandpa Joe. It was perhaps unconditional love at its best.

Fifteen years

Fifteen years have now passed since what may become the defining point of a generation. Fifteen years, almost to the minute as this is being written, terrorists attacked the Pentagon, the World Trade Center, and were overcome by the passengers of an airplane over the hills of Pennsylvania. All that time, and we still cannot make any sense of it.

The trouble is that there is no sense to be made. To be sure, we can understand the reasons for even such terrible actions, in the same way that we can understand the reasons Hitler did what he did. Yet that is not the same as understanding.

How do we, how can we, come to actually understand rape or murder or thievery, mass murder or any any other evil which may be added to such a gruesome list, if we are to be decent human beings ourselves? It is only in a warped mind where such heinous acts may be justified. As such, reasonable people simply cannot understand them. It is beyond their ability; it is to them pure nonsense.

So the goal today should be to remember. Remember the victims and their families, remember the countless acts of heroism that day, remember even the perpetrators of such despicable carnage if for no other reason than to remind ourselves that such twisted souls do exist, seeking the ruin of those those not in lockstep with them. But hopefully, remember even so that their redemption may be possible. If we are the good people we claim to be, even that shouldn't be so difficult of a task on so difficult of an anniversary.