Pope Leo XIV: "To be called 'woke' is no insult"

 

Cross-post from Democrats, Republicans & Independents United Against Trumpism.

A good time to ponder "The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World"

I am rereading "Love in the Ruins or The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World" by Walker Percy. He will always be a favorite of mine for his mournful yet witty 1961 novel of depression "The Moviegoer," winner of the National Book Award and considered a classic. It's well known that Percy assisted John Kennedy Toole's mother get "A Confederacy of Dunces" published. Toole left the manuscript behind when he committed suicide. Percy had many suicides in his family: his  grandfather, father, and (probably) mother. As a teen, he and his two brothers were taken in by his uncle, a poet in Mississippi. The die was cast.

"Love in the Ruins" is set in a future Paradise, Louisiana. Percy, a trained physician and one-time mental patient, spent much of his life in New Orleans, the setting of many of his novels. 

Love in the Ruins" (Open Road Media 2011 version on Kindle) was introduced to me via a reading list for a contemporary literature class taught by Phil Drimmel at Daytona Beach Community College in 1973-74 At the time, I was returning to college after two years as a college dropout and survivor of the 1969 Selective Service Draft Lottery (#128). A 1969 high school grad, I had failures  behind me as a biology major and as a Navy midshipman. I traveled some and lived in an educated northern city where I thought I might be a nursing student like my girlfriend but decided to break with the girlfriend and return to Florida and pursue the lucrative career as a fiction writer. The joke was on me, of course, but along the way I read plenty of good books. 

Percy's dark humor was a good match for the time as I also was entranced with the books of Vonnegut, Heller, and Kesey. I read Rolling Stone mainly for its gonzo journalism and National Lampoon for its wicked humor. And, like Percy's character, I was also a bad Catholic, renouncing the title of Mr. Catholic conferred on me by the Knights of Columbus in Daytona Beach at our Catholic high school graduation awards ceremony. A 50-dollar U.S. Savings Bond came with it, a little something to help with my education or writing career or maybe even some bad choices.

"Love in the Ruins" 1973 was a different read that "Love in the Ruins" 2025. I didn't really get it when I was 22. I liked the satire of this imagined future and psychiatrist Dr. Tom More's journey. I was entranced by his Qualitative Quantitative Ontological Lapsometer which reads the state of a person's soul and later is fine-tuned to read a person's mental imbalances. I was a bit creeped out by More's middle-ager's sex drive, my prudish Mr. Catholic eclipsing my own yearning for community college women. 

So I didn't get it all then. But now, I decided to pay attention to "another person's voice." That's what Borges told his students when they asked why they should read the books of others. 

This Bad Catholic is still reading this 1971 novel about an imagined Bad Catholic. I've been thinking a lot about this subject especially since Pope Francis's death. Just what is a Bad Catholic these days? Is it someone who religiously obeys every tenet of Catholic doctrine? Or all those questioners like Tom More, all those I knew from the 10:30 Catholic Community in Denver. Dutiful questioners all. 

Percy needs my attention, especially now. I am a bad Catholic living near the end of the world. A pope with the heart of St. Francis has died. The Antichrist is in the White House. Books from my past speak to me.

The book's July 3 section recounts a day in The Pit, the slang for the hospital's weekly Q&A among physicians and students. Dr. More speaks of his lapsometer. Meanwhile, a rival has arrived and hands out copies of the doctor's new lapsometer which disturbs its creator. 

As Dr. More says: "This device is not a toy. It could produce the most serious psychic disturbances... If it were focused over certain frontal areas or region of the pineal body, which is the seat of selfhood, it could lead to severe Angelism, an abstraction of the self from itself, and what I call the Lucifer Syndrome: that is, envy of the incarnate condition and a resulting caricature of the bodily appetites."

All hell breaks loose in The Pit. Male and female students glom on to each other. A professor admires the beauty in a male student's face. Fistfights break out. 

Human appetites are unleashed with the predictable results. As one of the doctors tells More: "Your device has triggered a mass hysteria. Like the St. Vitus's Dance in the Middle Ages. These are strange times." 

Indeed. Maybe it takes a Bad Catholic to write about strange times.

I am at the 71% mark on Kindle. I will finish this book. 

Saying goodbye to a friend, Dick Lechman

A eulogy for a friend from a friend: 

Books, books, books.

Dick Lechman had thousands of books at one time at his Old Grandfather Books in downtown Arvada. He had books in the store, books in a garage, and a few in his apartment and his car. I loved going into the Arvada store because I could always find something I didn’t know I was looking for. A history of World War I, a coffee table book of Colorado maps, an unread early novel by one of my favorite writers. If I couldn’t find anything, Dick would always suggest something. His interests centered on spirituality and religion as befits a one-time practicing priest. But his imagination wandered far and wide. My daughter Annie, Dick’s goddaughter, liked the bookstore too. She was little and liked to get lost in the stacks to discover intriguing books about dinosaurs and unicorns, sometimes in the same book. I never met with Dick that he didn’t have a book for me. I might be interested in it or maybe not. But someone who will gift you a book is someone to spend time with.

After Dick and his wife Mary bought a house in Arvada, I sometimes journeyed down from Cheyenne to play ping pong in his garage/office. Books lined the shelves there too. Dick usually won the games and then we retired to the garage’s book section. Dick also built and installed a Little Free Library in his front yard. I like those and usually stop to peruse the library when I see one. It’s like hidden treasure – there could be anything in there. And often was.

Dick was a writer too, a poet with philosophy in mind. He always emailed or mailed me his poetry. I usually commented on it because I know, as a writer and writing teacher, that every written thing deserves attention. In his poetry, Jesus played baseball and so did his disciples. Amazing flights of imagination. I liked the way he always worked friends and family into his poems – that made it very personal. I didn’t understand all of it but appreciated that he spent time and energy writing it down.

Dick was a conscientious godfather. He always brought Annie books and wrote her poems. He went out of his way to help her when she was in a variety of mental health treatment centers, in Colorado, Wyoming and a few neighboring states. It’s sometimes hard to know what to say to a loved one with mental health challenges. Just being there in a big deal. Yourself, listening. Chris and I always appreciated Dick’s attention to our little bird trying to fly.

Dick was one of the first people Chris and I met when we decided to abandon traditional Catholic churches for something different at 10:30 Catholic Community. Some of us gathered together in a men’s group and it turned out we had a lot to share with one another. We went on jaunts to the mountains. I moved away from Denver, first to Fort Collins and then to Cheyenne, and some of the guys went down to Arizona for Rockies’ spring training. Dick liked his Rockies and so did Mary. We all were committed fans and one of my great memories was attending a Rockies-Dodgers game with Dick and Mary and Dick’s brother and sister-in-law. Summer night at Coors Field. Sure, you might get heartburn from the hot dogs and the Rockies relief pitching. But always the best place to be in summer.

It's sad to say goodbye to Dick. The memories remain. He was a good guy with a big heart. And a fine friend.

Dick was always learning. This is some of his commentary on an Easter poem he sent me in April 2022: Remember that is just Dick's two cents/And each of you have your two cents/So it seems this Easter is better than last Easter./Cuz I didn't understand the resurrection of the spirit till/I was 83 years old.

He was 85 when he passed from this life last week. 

2022 was Dick’s final Easter on this planet. He also commented on the afterlife, saying that he hoped there was no paperwork there. By that, I'm guessing he meant PAPERWORK, you know, the kind we all hate to fill out. He didn't mean the paper of books because that meant so much to him. I do believe there is poetry and books, lots of books, in the afterlife. What would heaven be without them?

Dick loved sports and especially the Colorado Rockies. If there's room for books in heaven, there must be be a snowball's chance in Hades that the Rockies can find consistent pitching and go on to win a World Series. We can all keep praying for that. 

A poem a day keeps the nighttime devils at bay

Every night before sleep, I call up the Poetry Foundation page and read the poem of the day. It's an eclectic mix, featuring classical bards and contemporary voices. In the last week, I've read work by Grace Paley, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Amy Lowell. Lowell's "Lilacs" was featured the other night. I read it twice, not to make me tired but to fix the look and scent of lilacs in my mind so my dreams are more lilacs and less horror story. 

Dream experts say that we can do this, fashion our dreams before sleep. I'm only partially successful at this. Maybe it's a holdover from the bedtime prayer that my parents taught me. Here it is:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

The key element is "if I should die." This is not a comforting thought for a six-year-old. I say my prayer and settle in for a quiet night of hellfire and brimstone. It lingers there among the more positive terms such as sleep and soul and Lord. My late brother Dan often complained about his insomnia. I never thought to bring up the horrible prayer that we recited every night. The current version of the same prayer goes like this:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

May angels watch me through the night

And wake me with the morning light

Much more comforting to have angels watch me in the night. Most angels then were beautiful winged creatures bathed in heavenly light. So preferable to horned devils rising from the fiery pit. Our choice was clear: angel or devil. If we chose devilish behavior, we could confess the transgression in confession, say a bunch of prayers, and start over again. That was the wonderful thing about the American Catholicism of my youth -- a promise of better days ahead. If I disobeyed my parents or conjured unclean thoughts, I could spill it to the priest, a shadowy figure behind an obscuring curtain, the kind CNN reporters use when interviewing whistle-blowers or mobsters. Once released, I could say my penance and flee to play baseball with my friends or to sin again -- my choice. 

Lowell's "Lilacs" is a beautiful poem, one that the nuns may have made me read, although Sister Theresa was more likely to assign us rhyming couplets. A description of "Lilacs" called it a patriotic poem. Lowell was a Boston Brahmin, a New Englander to the core and related to Harvard presidents and famous scientists. She may have had to say the same bedtime prayer as I did. That prayer comes from The New England Primer, the first reading text in the American colonies. It was published by printer Benjamin Harris who so hated and feared Catholics that he fled to the Americas during the brief reign of James II. Quoted on Wikipedia, New Hampshire senator and former college English prof  David H. Watters says that the primer was "built on rote memorization, the Puritans' distrust of uncontrolled speech, and their preoccupation with childhood depravity." No wonder it's still sold online as a text for Evangelical homeschoolers. The primer was based on The Protestant Tutor and taught Puritan children their ABCs: 

In Adam's fall/We sinned all (with drawing of Eve being tempted by big snake and then, presumably, tempting Adam)

My Book and Heart/Shall never part (with drawing of Bible with heart on cover)

Job feels the rod/And blesses God (with drawing of Job plagued by boils and pustules)

My parents were diehard Catholics born in the 1920s teaching their 20th-century children a 17th-century Puritan prayer. This 21st century lapsed Catholic enjoys the irony. Meanwhile, I'll skip the praying and keep reading Heid E. Erdrich, Abigail Chabitnoy, Marilyn Chin, W.B. Yeats, Yusef Komunyakaa and many others. 

Now I lay me down to sleep...

During a bad weekend for equality, I ponder the Catholic Church's social justice traditions

By now, everyone has viewed the video of the Catholic school boys mocking tribal elder Nathan Phillips on the National Mall.

To review, students from the all-boys Covington (Ky.) Catholic High  School are shown mocking Phillips as he beats the drum and chants the American Indian Movement song. Phillips is a member of the Omaha tribe, a Vietnam veteran, and one of the organizers of the Standing Rock oil pipeline protests of 2017. Videos show white school boys wearing MAGA hats. They also chant Trumpisms such as "build the wall." Obnoxious brats, sons of privilege. One wonders where their clueless hatred came from. One need look no further than our clueless hate-filled president, who mocks Native Americans with terms such as "Pocahontas" and references to the Wounded Knee massacre. They heard these things on talk radio or watched them on Fox News. Maybe they heard mockery of ethnic minorities around their house, from parents who shouted similar things at Trump rallies. Some teachers may be to blame, not so much for spouting racism but by failing to nip it in the bud. Certainly social media spreads the hate, although to blame the Internet for these boys' behavior is too convenient. It takes them -- and the rest of us -- off the hook. That's part of the problem.

Some Facebook commenters have urged the school to expel these students. Too easy. This is a teaching moment. Boot the kids from school and they will head off to the local suburban public school where they will remain smug in their ignorance. The Catholic Church has many teaching tools at its disposal. The New Testament, especially the Sermon on the Mount, is a good place to start. WWJD when confronted with a situation where empathy and understanding were called for? Phillips said in an interview that he was trying to insert himself into a brawl. He then tried to escape the melee but the smug-faced teen in the MAGA hat stood in his way. Here was a test to show what true Christianity looks like. Big fail, boys from Covington Catholic High.

The MAGA crowd loves to poke fun of "social justice warriors." Some of us, me included, proudly claim the term. Where did I learn the precepts of social justice? First, at home, then through the Catholic Church during mass and at Father Lopez Catholic High School. The nuns and priests and lay people taught us well. It's fashionable to criticize the church for its many transgressions throughout its 2,000 years. In recent history, we have the scandal of priest sexual abuse. Over he years, Catholic orphanages turned "unwed" mothers into pariahs and treated their young charges like cattle. The church loved its crusades and its bloody Inquisition. Spain and Portugal sent its men to the New World to convert the heathen and kill any who resisted. Nathan Phillips may be a product of one of many Catholic boarding schools, where youngsters were ripped away from their families and bullied into becoming good Catholics. The Catholic Church was a major player in the horror show of history.

It also offers me solace. Not lately, as I quit going to church. I used to find peace in the ritual of the mass. In adulthood, when sinking in the swamp pf depression, I found as much relief in prayer as I did from therapy and meds. I still pray. The main thing that turned me away from the church is what I sometimes refer to as its deal with the devil. The devil is represented by the evangelicals and their handmaidens, the Republican Party. The church decided decades ago that the war against abortion was more important than the spiritual health of its millions of members in the U.S. They allied themselves with the fundamentalists to impose a litmus test on its members. There are only a few questions on the test, I guess you can call it a quiz if you want. You are in the in-crowd if you oppose abortion, birth control, sex outside of marriage, women in leadership roles (including priests), and LGBT rights. This makes you a fellow traveler with the Evangelical Right Wing, a group whose roots are in anti-Catholic bigotry. Of course, Catholics did their own Protestant-bashing. When I was a kid, I was told it was a sin to go to a Protestant church service. I've sinned repeatedly in my adulthood.

So I'm a Cultural Catholic. My roots are in Catholicism but my present is not. I can't ignore memory. My final thoughts may be of a snippet of Latin from the old mass. My Irish grandfather and his rosary beads. Sister Norbert winding up to whack one of us misbehaving boys. Thankfully, I won't be thinking of how I hated Native Americans, Hispanic immigrants, Jews, Liberals, Obama, the transgender kid who just wants to use the bathroom, and all those other people who might look or think differently from me. I won't make others feel small so I can look big. That's a blessing right there.

LATER: Just returned from the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Black Tie Banquet at the Red Lion Inn. Full house. Sat at the Laramie County Democrats' table with Chris and Dem friends. Saw so many people I've met over the years, people I've met through the NAACP, Juneteenth and the arts. All of us were celebrating Dr. King. Guest Speaker was Dr. Olenda E. Johnson, Ph.D., a Cheyenne native who was the first African-American full professor at the U.S. Naval War College. Uplifting speech from an uplifting person. She talked about the late Wyoming State Senator Liz Byrd of Cheyenne who brought up the King holiday in the legislature nine times before it was finally adopted by that body's white majority. Talk about persistence and dedication. Now I'm home and realizing how wonderful it is to get out to meet people who make a difference day by day by day. Another blessing...

Another generation betrayed by those who should know better

This Saturday, thousands of young people will stage the March for Our Lives anti-gun violence rally in Washington, D.C. Expecting huge crowds, officials have changed the opening day of the annual Cherry Blossom Festival to Sunday, March 25. This also marks the beginning of tourist season for D.C. Spring is gorgeous. The cherry blossoms that surround the tidal basin are spectacular. But this year, the weekend's focus will be on ways that we can stop the slaughter of our children in their schools.

I can only guess at the pain that the Marjory Stoneman Douglas students from Parkland, Fla., feel as they watch their elders dither over gun control. These are the results you get from us – hypocrisy and betrayal. The students’ adversaries are monumental. Its structure will have to be dismantled brick by brick.

I imagine what would have happened if a gunman had entered my Florida school 50 years ago and murdered 17 of my classmates and teachers.

The year, 1968. The school, Father Lopez Catholic High School in Daytona Beach. We 17-year-old juniors have Valentine’s Day on our minds. I hoped I had bought just the right thing for my girlfriend. My girlfriend might have been contemplating the very same thing. Basketball season was winding down and it looked like my Green Wave team was going to win the conference. We had all given up something for Lent. Chocolate. French fries. Cussing. Fear of eternal damnation kept us chaste so there was no reason to give up sex, although we joked about it. Spring break was on the horizon, as was summer, and we were thinking about summer jobs and days on the beach.

We had an open campus. Anyone could walk in and did. Moms delivered forgotten lunches and homework. Visitors dropped by at any time. We would have been sitting ducks for a killer.

It never happened at my school and never has. If 17 of my classmates had been killed, I would have known them all – we had fewer than 400 students in four grades. One of the dead or wounded could have been me. I like to think that I would have been a hero no matter what. I have nothing to base that on because I had never faced a shot fired in anger – and I still haven’t. We would all be devastated. We would be looking for solace and answers.

What would adults have told us? Don’t worry. This is an aberration. The gunman was crazy. It will never happen again.

And we would have believed them.

That was our first mistake. It wouldn’t be our last.

On April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., would be gunned down in Memphis. Our school’s mostly-black neighborhood would not be safe. Riots would erupt on Second Avenue which, during those segregated times, was where the black population lived.  

On June 6, Robert Kennedy would be murdered by an assassin. I idolized the Kennedys. RFK and JFK were imperfect human beings. But I was a teen looking for some heroes.  

Florida native Charles Whitman murdered 16 people, most of them from a perch at the University of Texas tower, in July 1966. Not the first mass murder but the fact that it was a former Marine sniper made news. And he was a very angry white man.

On Valentine’s Day 1968, the Tet Offensive was just winding down in Vietnam. Surely this meant the end of a failed experiment, one that was claiming the lives of my peers and many Vietnamese. The war dragged on for another seven years. Our elders, “the best and the brightest,” insisted it was the right thing to do.

None of the adults gave us the real facts about sex. Parents and nuns and priests decided that fear was enough of a deterrent. They were mostly correct, although at least one of our female classmates missed part of the senior year with an unplanned pregnancy. You would not be surprised that pregnant teens found the same censure at public schools. It just wasn’t done. The boys were never blamed.

We knew betrayal, we didn’t yet have a name for it. Members of our generation possessed a simmering rage. That was a problem, because the Summer of Love and the Age of Aquarius had dawned. Peace, love, and understanding. If that was true, how come people were filled with anger? Blacks vs. Whites. Cops vs. pot smokers. Rednecks vs. hippies. Viet Cong vs. the U.S.A. Irish Catholics vs. Protestants. Jews vs. Arabs and almost everyone else.

Flash forward to the present. Seventeen killed and a dozen wounded at a Florida high school. The only ones making sense are 16- and 17-year-old classmates of the dead at Douglas High School. Adults in positions of power are dangerous fools. They spout nonsense that get their children killed.

Betrayed. It’s déjà vu all over again.

It may have its roots in the betrayal that ignited our generation. That was never resolved, or forgotten, just buried as the years passed. We weren’t the first. It’s possible that adults of every generation betray their children. Over time, we lose touch with our values and our kids pay the price. You can say that every generation needs to experience hardships to find out the true nature of the world. Center for Disease Control figures come up with 1.55 million deaths from firearms in the U.S. from 1968-2016. This includes the span of many generations. Wouldn’t a smart, caring community have come up with some solutions by now?

Good people do bad things. Bad people do bad things. That’s an old story. But why do we make it easier for anyone to buy an AR-15, walk into a school, and shoot down 17 people? Haven’t we learned our lessons by now? Columbine, Aurora, Sandy Hook, Orlando, Las Vegas. The list goes on and on. If we don’t do something about it, we betray our children. If we do something about it, we betray only the NRA and our thick-headed politicians.

The choice should be clear. More betrayal, the generational rite of passage? Or do we do something new and different and constructive?

Which will it be?

Love is love is love is love -- but not at Florida's Father Lopez Catholic High School

Below is an e-mail I sent to Father Lopez Catholic High School President Pat LaMorte in Daytona Beach, Florida. It's in response to Mary Kate Curry's "resignation under duress" at the school when it became public that she was engaged to a woman. To read more about this, go to the New Ways Ministry web site at https://www.newwaysministry.org/2017/10/23/catholic-school-teacher-fired-gender-engagement/. Thanks to fellow Lopez alum John Bartelloni (Class of '70) for alerting me about this.

My letter:

Dear Pres. LaMorte:

My Father Lopez High School education taught me that the Catholic Church should be alleviating pain and suffering in the world, not adding to it.

I just read about Mary Kate Curry's "resignation under duress" as a theology teacher and the school's decision to forbid her from coaching (even volunteering to coach) the FLHS girls' basketball team. 

Curry's letter was heartbreaking. She obviously loved her jobs as teacher and coach. To take those away from her is the worst kind of cruelty. 

And the reason? She publicly outed herself as a member of the LGBT community, someone who loves someone of her own gender. She couldn't live a lie any more and you punished her for it. Shame on you, the school and the diocese. Shame.

I attended Father Lopez from 1965-69. I was president of the National Honor Society and lettered in basketball, part of the team that went to the state tournament in 1969. I am proud of being a Lopez alum. 

Make us all proud. Alleviate the pain you caused in this young woman's life by reinstating her as a teacher and coach. 

Some 50 years from now, a 2018 Lopez grad will look upon his or her time in the classroom or on the court with Ms. Curry and say, as I do today, that I learned how to be a honorable human being at Father Lopez. 

Do the right thing.

Sincerely,

Michael Shay

Cheyenne, Wyoming

The Summer of Love; the Winter of Our Discontent

I laughed when I saw the cover of the Aug./Sept. issue of AARP: The Magazine. Over a Peter Max original illustration was the header: "Celebrate the Summer of Love, 50th anniversary, 1967-2017."

I was almost as far away from San Francisco as a 16-year-old could get in the summer of 1967. In the waning days of summer, I was about to become a junior at Father Lopez Catholic High School in Daytona Beach, Florida.

That summer, my classmates thought that I was moving to a new life in Cincinnati, Ohio. My father was already in Cincy, crunching numbers at the General Electric Works. He moved as did so many others -- Florida's aerospace industry had come to a grinding halt.

But what about the moon landing, the one that was still two years in the future? Much of the prep work was finished. NASA and its many subcontractors (GE among them) didn't need all the engineers and statisticians and accountants that they had brought to Central Florida for the task. An engineer friend of my Dad was pumping gas. Others found tourist-industry jobs so they could continue to enjoy the splendors of The Sunshine State.

Two of my friends, Rob and Ann, had already decamped with their families to Schenectady, N.Y., another big base for GE, the one where Kurt Vonnegut once toiled in PR ("Deer in the Works"). Classmates had thrown us a going-away party. Good-bye and good luck!

I was registered to attend another Catholic high school, this one an all-boys school in Cincy that I was certain to hate. I was not a kid who made friends easily. I would not make the basketball team, as the new school was big and had a hot-shot varsity already in place. If I ever met any girls, Catholic or otherwise, they would ignore me. My good grades were due to take a nose dive and I was destined for failure. This was my dark side speaking, teen angst on overdrive. If I wrote poetry then -- and kept it -- it would be something to read. But I was a jock and a surfer and my type didn't write emo poems or any kind of poems. Or so I thought.

My mother worked at a local hospital and still had a two-year-old at home, along with eight other kids. We couldn't sell our house. All the buyers were on their way back north. Prices plummeted. My father said that he missed his wife Anna and his nine kids. Dad left me his 1960 Renault Dauphine so I could take my siblings to school and basketball practice and anywhere else they had to go. I was delighted to have a car and a license to go on the many dates I imagined that I would have.

After six months, my father surprised us all when he decided to leave GE and try to get a job in central Florida. My future was saved.

It wasn't easy for my father. He was a quiet man. I can imagine his life as a bookish professor or a secluded monk, a man without a huge family and all the pressures that brings. As a kid, he spent his time going to the library and building crystal radio sets in his basement. He wasn't a striver or a climber, which doomed him from the start in the corporate world. I know, as I spent five years as a corporate man, twenty-five years in government. I am an introvert but learned how to be a public person. I was tasked with supporting my family. I did that. But there always is a cost, and you may not know about it until you are retired.

My Dad returned to Florida late that summer. When school started, he was looking for a job. My mom worked as a nurse at a local hospital. We were together again.

What was life like in August 1967 for the average American big family? My parents never had enough money. Both worked, a rarity in 1967. Still, it was never enough. Most of the people we knew were in the same boat.

The Summer of Love? To us, hippies were an anomaly. I thought they were cool but their antics were foreign to me. Sex was dreamed of but an impossible dream, to take a line from a popular 1960s Broadway musical. We sweated and groped in the back seats of cars. There were public school girls who went all the way, or so the public school boys told us. But that wasn't for us.

Remember that this was pre-Disney Florida. Before the boom that caused the founding of dozens of fantasy worlds and caused everyone in Providence and Newark to relocate to Daytona and Sarasota. If it was a feature at Disney, it would be called "A Whole Different World World."

It's a Whole Different World World
It's a Whole Different World World
Segregated schools, no sex on the beaches
Swamps teeming with gators and leeches
It's a Whole Different World World after all

Don't get me wrong -- we admired those people engaging in unbridled sex and drug-taking in The Haight. We might have followed the lead of our parents and cursed those damn hippies. We were fascinated and jealous at the same time. It just seemed so foreign.

Happy 50th anniversary to all of you who engaged in the Summer of Love and lived to tell the tale.

Summer of '67. We all have our stories....

"The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things" -- what will it be for Trump?

"The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things", painting by "Hieronymus Bosch" (disputed), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8829283

How many days has Trump been in office? Only 100-something. It seems like a thousand. If it was a thousand -- we hope that day never comes -- we will all be dead or living on the streets. The policies put forth by Trump and his Republican minions amount to cruel and unusual punishment, which would be unconstitutional if we were imprisoned. How did we put our precious country into the hands of a madman? That's not entirely accurate -- and unkind toward those with mental illness. Trump may indeed be mentally ill. Or he might be one of those twisted leaders thrown up regularly by history.

Trump has many SM nicknames. Tweeter in Chief. Twitler, The Orange One. Twitler is a handy one as it evokes images of Herr Hitler. But then we are back to madmen again. Hitler was human, after all. My father's black and white photos showed him and his Signal Corps pals at Berchtesgaden in 1945. He also had photos of newly-liberated death camps. He knew what Hitler wrought. But, as he liked to say on occasion, "Even Hitler loved his dogs." Great quote from an accountant who loved to read actual books. It was too easy to label Hitler as a monster. He loved his dogs. Humans? Not so much.  Also, the quote is a cautionary tale for us kids. Sure, that person may love his/her dogs, but notice how they treat people. Is it with the same kind of affection? Or would they like to throw you into an oven?

My parents were kind. I've inherited their attitude toward people. I also like dogs and cats. I also am a fallible human being. I hate Trump as president because I believe he is unqualified. Would I like to toss him in an oven? No. Would I like to toss him out of office? Yes. I hate Trump because he favors inhuman policies toward me and my family. He is fallible in the way that all humans are fallible. They are born with original sin, as the catechism says. They also are subject to the failings of the Seven Deadly Sins:  Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride.

Trump is a greedy bastard. He admits his lustful thoughts, or at least he admitted he did before Inauguration Day. Sloth -- too much golf? His political style shows much wrath. He envies Hillary Clinton's victory in the popular vote. Pride? Just look at his photos. And his figure exhibits gluttony, as do all of the photos showing him surrounded by gilded stuff, food included. His bloated body also shows signs of too much, too much.

Does this make Trump a monster? No, just human. Extravagantly human. Exorbitantly human. Does it make him president? Well, it did, according to the rules of the Electoral College.

Above is an illustration of the Seven Deadly Sins by artist Hieronymus Bosch.

Recently, Hieronymus Bosch became a script line in "Bosch" the Amazon Prime series. Actually, Bosch is always alive on the show and in Michael Connelly's Bosch detective novels. LAPD Detective Harry Bosch is known for taking shortcuts on the way to convicting the bad guys. The bad guys have failings in one or more of the Seven Deadly Sins. But so does Bosch. Is he a bad guy or good guy? When confronted by his partner, Bosch answers: "We do what we have to do."

The struggle is at the heart of most memorable detective novels and movies. Most novels, period. Sam Spade is having an affair with his partner's wife. His partner gets killed following up one of Spade's leads. Spade has to step in and find the killer which opens up "The Maltese Falcon," which contains most of the deadly sins. They are personified by the characters who show up in search of the falcon. Spade falls in love with Brigid O'Shaughnessy, the one who killed his partner -- Spade discovers this along the way. He turns in O'Shaughnessy and makes this confession:

"When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it. And it happens we're in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it's-it's bad business to let the killer get away with it, bad all around, bad for every detective everywhere." 

Bad for business. Nothing to do with right or wrong. We know it's just an excuse. Sam Spade is a cad. But he's also the avenging angel. He's somewhere in that Bosch illustration. As is Trump. As am I.

I have to sound a spoiler alert for the following.

I just finished watching the final episode of season three of "Bosch." It ends with Bosch sitting in the dark in an auditorium. At the podium, Mayor Ramos and Police Commission President Bradley Walker have just pinned the captain's bars on Irvin Irving. Walker, we have discovered through hours of binge watching, is guilty of the murder of Bosch's call-girl mother 30 years earlier. Bosch, we know from the look on his face and from reading many of Michael Connelly's novels, will get his revenge. He is the avenging angel. In the process, he may be cast into the fiery pit. By Captain Irving. By Walker. By L.A.'s notoriously fickle justice system. By Satan himself.

How will it end for Trump? Could it be one of "The Four Last Things?" They are

1. Death of the sinner
2. Judgment
3. Hell
4. Glory

Any one is possible.

God only knows.

Happy 35th anniversary, Christine Marie Shay

Chris and I made solemn vows 35 years ago today in Ormond Beach, FL. First, we got married. Second, we vowed to never smush cake in each other's faces. Third, we vowed to toast our good health as often as possible. So far, so good. Happy 35th anniversary to my beautiful wife.

List for St. Patrick's Day: Top ten traits of Irish-Americans

What does it mean to be Irish-American?

Skin cancer, for one thing. We are light-skinned, except for the Black Irish who are not so much black as black-haired and dark-eyed. My mother was Black Irish, as was her father who came over from County Roscommon. Her brother John -- my uncle -- was often mistaken for a dweller of the Mediterranean, Italian or Spanish or even Basque, or possibly French like the Norman invaders. The Basques sailed the Atlantic and visited Ireland, maybe even made landfall in North America before other Europeans. Irish DNA maps are similar to those of Spain and Portugal and Normandy. You can look it up.

My initial question is important because we are in the midst of March and St. Patrick's Day arrives next week. It's the same week that March Madness begins and gives us two good reasons for day drinking. We also take a page from Mardi Gras in New Orleans and try to celebrate the entire month, or at least for a week or two leading up to The Big Day. Many St. Patrick's Day parades will be held this weekend, including the one in Denver which I will be attending. I was birthed in Denver, surrounded by Irish Sisters of Mercy, and my Irish grandfather is buried there. That gives me some claim to Irish-Americanism, Mile High City-style.

Did I mention that I have never traveled to Ireland to look up my ancestors? This is supposed to be on every Irish-American's wish list. I have gone 66 years without checking this off on mine. What's holding me back? Nothing, especially that I am now retired. I want to experience Bloomsday in Dublin, June 16. This is on my list because I can't seem to finish Joyce's 265,000-word masterpiece, Ulysses, hard as I try. I read Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Can't finish Ulysses. This makes me a member of a large club of people who have not finished Ulysses. I decided that a trip to Joyce's Dublin will help me with this task. And I will get to drink many pints of good beer in the process. I will get to hear Irish brogues and good music for a few days. That's enough.

I will make a list of "top ten traits of every Irish-American." Online top-ten lists are the bee's knees right now. A list will be instructional for us all, me included.

Ten traits of every Irish-American:
1. We are a freckle-faced, light-skinned people except when we are not.
2. At least one of our ancestors comes from Ireland. It's helpful if all of your ancestors came from Ireland, but not everyone is perfect.
3. We are Catholic, except when we are Lutheran or Episcopalian or Buddhist or Zoroastrian or Coptic or atheist or transcendentalist or.... Maybe that should be: We were raised Catholic but came to our senses once we were adults.
4. At least one of our ancestors fled the potato famine of the 1840s. When I lived in Boston, everyone's relatives seemed to have arrived on the Mayflower. That must have been one wicked big ship. And the potato famine? It was terrible, but we can't all use this as an excuse to blog about our Irish ancestors who almost died in the famine and then crossed the ocean in a leaky ship to be told "Irish need not apply" for jobs when they arrived in the U.S.
5. We all tell tales about our Irish ancestors who almost died in the famine and then crossed the ocean in a leaky ship to be told "Irish need not apply" for jobs when they arrived in the U.S.
6. We attended Catholic school. This may be a generational thing. I attended Catholic school as did  most of my eight brothers and sisters, for a little while, at least. We have stories of berserk nuns and cruel priests. Rulers across knuckles. After-school detentions where nuns smote us with cat-o'-nine-tails as we labored in the nunnery's vineyards. Our children and grandchildren think we are making up these stories because they all went to public schools.
7. We have big families. We did until some godforsaken Protestant told us about birth control. In the old days, we weren't allowed to consort with Protestants. The sixties changed all that.
8. We all have Irish names. My name is Michael Thomas Martin Shay. My wife is Christine Marie. My son is Kevin Michael Patrick. My daughter is Anne Marie. Yet, I have a nephew named Sean Martinez. America!
9. We celebrate St. Patrick's Day. It's almost mandatory to drink a green beer or a pint on March 17. We march in St. Patrick's Day parades unless we are LGBT veterans or twelve-steppers or disgruntled about the state of American politics. Everybody is Irish on  this day except when they are not.
10. We are inconsistent and stubborn. Except when we are not.

That's my top ten. Perhaps you have another list?

BTW, Erin go bragh, whatever that means. And slainte -- I know what that means. I plan to use it often on St. Patrick's Day.

Readers can still find an epiphany in this post-truth world

Remember the impact of The Matrix when it debuted in 1999? The "Matrix" was the false reality created by machines. Humans lived in this manufactured reality. The scary truth is that humans lived in pods where their bodily fluids and brain waves were farmed as power sources by the machines. Neo (Keanu Reeves) suspects there is something wrong in this world. He gets the lowdown when he joins with Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) and other rebels to upset the status quo.

The film boasted a cool cast and neat-o special effects. But its core was an old theme: Things are not what they seem. People are not whom they seem to be. In Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train  Shadow of a Doubt , Charlie is not the kindly uncle that his niece Charley thinks he is. In Chinatown, detective Jake Gittes finds out once again that things are not what they seem in Chinatown or San Pedro or anywhere else.

A well-worn theme. As in our recent presidential election, things are not what they seem. This liberal voter thought that his country of birth was a rational place that would elect the experienced person. As I told my sister Molly, who works in Italy, there was no way that Trump would be elected. Molly was telling me that Italians thought that Trump was a buffoon, an idiot, a flim-flam man. He was -- and is. But somehow, enough voters bought the act to make him president. They bought the fact that Trump was Professor Harold Hill and not, well, Donald Trump. Does that make them stupid, gullible or hopeful?

I have read many columns explaining the 2016 elections. The best are thoughtful examinations of the national psyche. They come from reputable sources such as the New York Times, The Atlantic, Los Angeles Times, Salon. The gap between Republicans and Democrats is unbridgeable. It was a battle between urban liberals and rural conservatives and the latter won. The working classes hate privileged liberals such as Obama and Clinton, even when they come from (as Obama did) modest roots. Sen. Bernie Sanders contends that the Democrats sold out to the moneyed elites and forgot the middle class, even though many middle class voters in Rust Belt states voted for a member of New York City's moneyed elite. Go figure.

Although our new president doesn't read, I do. I guess I will keep reading until this all makes sense. Or not. I am a bit tired of reading critiques of the election. Most of my reading from this point on will be in fiction and poetry. Today is the feast of Epiphany, or as we called it in Catholic school, that day we get off after Christmas vacation. I learned in religion class that epiphany means "revelation." This according to the Fish Eaters blog:

As described on the page on Twelfthnight, this Feast -- also known as the . "Theophany" or "Three Kings Day" -- recalls Christ revealing Himself as Divine in three different ways: to the Magi, at His Baptism, and with His miracle at the wedding feast at Cana.

I learned today on Writer's Almanac that Epiphany also figures heavily in a James Joyce story:

James Joyce’s famous short story “The Dead” is set at a party for the Feast of the Epiphany. The story ends: “His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” Joyce also gave us a secular meaning of “epiphany,” using the word to mean the “revelation of the whatness of a thing,” the moment when “the soul of the commonest object [...] seems to us radiant."

I just finished Colson Whitehead's radiant novel The Underground Railroad. An incredible book. Does it help me understand the state of the U.S. in 2017? Our country's history is complicated, much more complicated than Lynne Cheney or Bill O'Reilly would have us believe. U.S. history is messy. Brutish and transcendent. The Underground Railroad pulls no punches when it comes to slavery's realities. But Whitehead adds some magical-realism elements that makes it much more than an anti-slavery screed. I can't give away the ending. That wouldn't be fair to millions of people who have yet to discover the book. Here is one tiny clue. The author is also interested in Manifest Destiny. Important to all Americans but especially to those who live in the Rocky Mountain West. Manifest Destiny leads us right to Wounded Knee and Little Bighorn and broken treaties and North Dakota's Standing Rock protests. Current events. And the timeliness of great fiction.

And poetry? More about that in my next post.

Dreams of redemption along the Wasatch Front

On Monday morning, we delivered our daughter Annie to a mental health treatment center on the Wasatch Front. After farewell hugs and tears, we sought comfort in the Angel Moroni.

SLC is LDS HQ, as any Rocky Mountain resident knows. Chris and I fought our way through traffic to downtown SLC. First stop – the ritzy bathrooms of Grand America, big brother to Little America across the street.  One thing I’ve learned from attending many events at Cheyenne’s Little America – this chain’s bathrooms can’t be beat.

Our second stop was lunch. We prowled Main Street until we found the longest food line and became a part of it. Long lines mean good food, right? The Robin’s Nest boasted on its window that City Weekly had given the place kudos for its vegetarian sandwich. We were the oldies amongst a gaggle of the working young, all in their twenties and thirties. It was difficult to look at these energetic people and not think of Annie, she of the beautiful voice and passion for all things creative. During the past eight years, she’s spent the majority of her time in treatment centers from Cheyenne to San Clemente. Her body is cross-hatched from cuts by razor and knife. Her psyche wavers between the living and the dead. If I think about it too much, my psyche loses its bearings. Instead, I order sandwiches while Chris finds a seat in the crowded café. I order what I think is “The Robin” after the name of the place but it is actually “The Rubin.” The order-taker corrects me then adds, “It happens all the time. Robin, Rubin – we know what you want.”

I briefly consider correcting the menu’s spelling of the esteemed Reuben sandwich, but decide against it. I don’t want to be the dithering old guy holding up the line.

Chris and I linger over lunch. We eat and watch the people. I absorb the energy and feel a little better on this Monday in Utah.

Our next stop: Mormonlandia. We ride the light rail (UTA TRAX) to Temple Square. We walk by the LDS Family History Library, home of a million stories. Chris and I each have distinctly non-Mormon family stories. But we’ve seen the stage version of “Book of Mormon” and know that the actual Book of Mormon is filled with fanciful tales. We were also raised on fancies and delights. Stories of the saints and martyrs and miracle filled our childhoods. Over my crib, my parents hung a print of the Archangel Michael driving Lucifer out of heaven. During mass, we devoured Jesus’s body and drank his blood. Mary the Virgin gave birth in a manger. Virginity was the guiding principle of every young Catholic until marriage, when we were expected to breed like rabbits. There was magic in this, too, as were expected to know how to procreate without anyone actually explaining to us the mechanics. That we had to learn on the street like any good Christian. Sex ed consisted of convoluted birds-and-bees talk from my father and a sixth-grade lesson from a priest who warned that it was a mortal sin to put our hands in our pockets. Now go forth and sin no more, hands swinging freely by your sides.

It is as easy to poke fun at Mormonism as it is Catholicism. But both build empires out of stories. And at the center of both traditions is faith. Unshakable but also rigid. Faith that can move mountains and slaughter innocents.

I feel that power at Temple Square. The Angel Moroni blasts his trumpet from atop the temple. He surveys his domain and pronounces it good.

Chris and I wandered the Temple Square grounds. We checked out the tabernacle and the temple, which denies entrance to The Great Unwashed. Any old person can visit the Vatican. But that’s the rule here. Volunteers give tours of the grounds and dispense helpful hints to tourists. One Mormon retiree in a bush hat buttonholed us and, after a few minutes, gets to the proselytizing stage. This doesn’t take long among Mormons. It’s at its heart, this push to save humankind even after death. Entire generations can be saved post-mortem, thus the big research library and its branches at libraries around the West.

Once the proselytizing begins, Chris moved away. She has a low tolerance for sermonizing. For me, well, I always think there might be a story in it. Like the one I’m writing now.

But I said thanks but no thanks to the retiree and moved on to join Chris. She is photographing the many statues. Joseph Smith and his brother are over there. I move in betwixt them and Chris gets a shot. We both shoot up at the Angel Moroni but, for some reason, those don’t turn out. Maybe the gold reflects too much sunlight. We may be too far away.

Many of the remarkable events in the Book of Mormon are illuminated in paintings at the LDS Conference Center. Our guide Gary, a retired Xerox salesman, shows off paintings by Minerva Teichart of Cokeville, Wyoming. Teichart may be one of the most prolific of the Mormon painters. She gave paintings as favors to friends and neighbors. She taught art to Cokeville’s many kids, back in the days when Cokeville had many kids. One room in the center is dedicated to twelve paintings by artist Arnold Friberg, the man who later painted the famous work of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge. LDS Primary President Adele Cannon Howells sold her own land to pay for the paintings because the church was broke – this was the last time that the church publicly pleaded poverty. “Ammon Defends his Flocks,” “Alma Baptizes in the Waters of Mormon” and ten others were featured in LDS’s The Children’s Friend and millions of copies of the Book of Mormon, which is where Cecil B. DeMille discovered Friberg and brought him to Hollywood to paint scenes for “The Ten Commandments.”

Representational religious art is not my bag. But Teichart and Friberg and the rest of the conference center artists were talented people. The paintings tell ripping good yarns and the characters have to be larger than life. The Catholic Church also commissioned lots of art, much of it by masters of painting and sculpture. We know that Catholics also conducted the Inquisition and murdered scores of native peoples in the name of conversion. We also know that the LDS hasn’t been the most tolerant of religions. Just this past week, church hierarchy announced that homosexuals are apostates and their children cannot be LDS members. This comes at the same time that Salt Lake City elected a lesbian mayor. Not surprising, really, in a place that has the seventh-largest LGBT population among the top 50 U.S. metropolitan areas.   

Gary concluded his tour with a visit to the roof. This cantilevered building supports several acres of marble walkways and fountains and high altitude forest and prairie grasslands. From here, I can view the mountains and the prairie, the downtown building boom, and airplanes departing for L.A. and Chicago. Gary told us that beneath our feet is the 21,000-seat auditorium that he showed us earlier. I think of falling through the marble and into that gigantic space. One of the Latter Day Saints might scoop me up and lift me to the top of the temple where I can join Moroni in his eternal symphony. Play on, you mighty angel, play on. Faith comes in many forms. My faith tells me that my daughter will find her own faith. I care not if it be Moroni or Jesus, Adele or Mozart, that bears her up on eagle’s wings. 

For Democrat Charlie Hardy -- Have lights, will travel

Wyoming Democrat Charlie Hardy doesn't have the funds for fancy billboards, be they old-fashioned variety or the new e-versions. However, he does have some old stage lights and a "Charlie Hardy for U.S. Senate" template. He takes his jerry-rigged projection system around Wyoming on a refurbished 1960 city bus festooned with campaign signs. He projects his electioneering slogan and the simple "Vote!" on the sides of buildings around the state. His favorite screen is the front of Wal-Mart stores, when he can find one.

The projection medium above is one of the many excellent outdoor murals in Laramie, where Charlie and his red-white-and-blue bus prowled last weekend during University of Wyoming's homecoming weekend. When he's not campaigning, he parks the bus in the corner of the most visible intersections in his hometown of Cheyenne.

Charlie is an ex-priest. He ministered to flocks throughout Wyoming then, from 1985-1993, he ministered in poverty-stricken areas in South America. He lived for most of those eight years in a pressed-cardboard-and-tin shack in a barrio on the edge of Caracas, Venezuela.

Charlie's opponent in the U.S. Senate race is incumbent Republican Mike Enzi. He's a kindly gentleman, an indie businessman, a dedicated reader and long-time arts supporter. Problem is, he votes with the right-wing loonies 98 percent of the time. He has to go.

1950s filled with creeds, oaths and pledges for us Boomers

Remember Hopalong Cassidy on 1950s black-and-white TV?

Remember Hopalong Cassidy's Creed?

Hopalong was in the news this week, A press release from the University of Wyoming noted that the archives at the American Heritage Center contain hundreds of items from the mythic cowboy's career in TV, radio and movies: LP records, photos, scripts, personal memorabilia, copies of the creed and all of the rest.


Wholesomeness was crucial. Hopalong was the “epitome of gallantry and fair play” and his creed reflected that. Honesty, cleanliness, respect for parents, love of country, etc. All great things. We recited the creed along with our TV cowboy hero -- and meant it. If you've lost your copy of the creed, get a copy at Hoppy's web site.

The 1950s were filled with creeds, oaths and pledges for us Boomer kids.

I was a Catholic, too. That meant memorizing the Ten Commandments and various prayers, including the Hail Mary, the Prayer to Saint Francis and the Apostles' Creed. The liturgy still was in Latin, but the nuns and priests and parents had mercy on us and let us memorize prayers in the vernacular. The Apostles' Creed:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord: Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost....

We always said "Holy Ghost" back then instead of "Holy Spirit." I still like saying it. Holy Ghost!

I was a Cub Scout, too. At meetings held at our den mother's house, we recited the oath before launching into various crappy crafts activities. We always wanted to go outside, play tag, shoot BB guns at squirrels, throw snowballs at cars and engage in other healthy outdoor activities. We did like the snacks. They were all-American 1950s snacks. Hostess Twinkees, Snoballs, homemade chocolate chip cookies, Kool-Aid, fat-rich milk, and all the rest. No carrot sticks,  apple slices or chia-infused organic juices for us. This was the beginning of the plaque build-up in my coronary arteries. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Lemon. 

At school, we recited The Pledge of Allegiance every morning, hand over our hearts.

We were good kids. We meant what we said.

To borrow a few lines from Catch-22 (remember Major Major?): When adults told us to look before we leapt, we looked and then leapt. When they said don't take candy from strangers, we didn't take any candy from strangers -- unless it was chocolate. When they said don't take any wooden nickels, I didn't take any wooden nickels.

It was only later, in the 1960s, when we learned that those creeds and oaths and pledges could not protect us from some things. Heartache, for one. No known creed protects against a broken heart. There may be a "I Will Never Love Anyone" creed but I never heard it. I've heard plenty of friends say they were never going to fall in love again. I've said it. Next thing you know, that friend is up to his eyeballs in love and there's not a thing to be done for it. Love stinks, hell yeah, but it's also a drug. Go figure.

We pledged out troth to institutions: The Church, Boy Scouts, U.S.A. They all betrayed us. The worst betrayal came at the hands of our government. It tried to send all of us to Southeast Asia to get killed for a lie. We know that now, and most of us suspected it then. Problem is, it seemed as if we would betray all of our institutions if we didn't do our duty and go to war. All those creeds and oaths and pledges! I didn't go, but that was only through the luck of the draw and strange circumstances. Some of my peers felt it was their duty to fight communism in Vietnam, to help stop the dominoes from falling. They had pledged loyalty to their government and now their government told them it was time to fulfill that pledge. We all took another oath, even us ROTC types, that said we would defend the constitution of the United States, so help us God.

God help us.

It's a long time gone, as the song says. But some of us still remember what it was like to feel betrayed. It caused some of my pals to take a hard right and blame the gubment for all of their ills. I don't blame them, really. I'm a liberal, though, one of those people who tend to put their faith in institutions. But that faith comes with a skeptical eye. Being a Boomer during Vietnam should have left us all with a bit of skepticism. The war was a lie and the draft lottery was rigged. Our elders would tell us anything to sway us to their righteous cause. Can't really blame then, either, as they had made their own pledges,  fought in the war, and been rewarded with peace and prosperity. Why were their children such ingrates?

Generations bang up against each other, sometimes in violent ways. At this moment, we are undoubtedly betraying our children and grandchildren. Some conservatives still bemoan the loose morals of their Boomer peers, blaming all of our present ills on those darn sixties. We lefties tend to regret the scourges of pollution and global warming. Sorry, kids, but you'll be underwater by 2200, maybe sooner. Not in Wyoming, but here in Cheyenne we'll have all of those coastal immigrants to worry about. Wonder if we'll be putting up a fence to keep out fleeing Californians and Carolinians?

If only we could come up with a pledge to save us from ourselves.

Churches recycle old spiritual cliches -- and drive away the seekers

Stephen Mattson writing on Sojourners' God's Politics blog had me at the first paragraph:

In a world where people are craving inspiration, growth, and information, many churches maintain a cyclical pattern based on redundancy, safety, and closed-mindedness. Unfortunately, many pastors and Christian leaders continue to recycle old spiritual clichés — and sermons — communicating scripture as if it were propaganda instead of life-changing news, and driving away a growing segment of people who find churches ignorant, intolerant, absurd, and irrelevant.

Read the whole blessed thing at http://sojo.net/blogs/2013/10/29/do-churches-alienate-intellectuals

I grew up Catholic, received all the sacraments (except for holy orders and extreme unction -- you have to be Catholic or at least Latin-friendly to know what that means), attended parochial school, baptized my kids as Catholics, and so on.

My wife and I fought like heck to stay in the church. Alas, old cliches and right-wing propaganda drove us away. I'm no more an intellectual than the next day, if the next guy happens to be Elmer Fudd. I ask questions, and am among the curious. I am also a Liberal, which is more of a sin in the church than being an intellectual. Strange thing is, I was taught by well-educated nuns and priests that it was OK to ask questions. More than OK -- it was encouraged. I wonder what Sister Miriam Catherine would make of the church in the second decade of the 21st century?

Keep asking questions, she used to tell us.

So old school. 

Isn't The Equality State the proper place for civil rights activists and racists to meet?

The weekend's summit meeting in Casper between the NAACP and the KKK is kicking up a fuss.

The Independent in the UK gave it big play as did a slew of my fellow bloggers (go here and here).

Adding to the drama is the fact that NAACP higher-ups apparently did not approve of the meeting, which seems silly to me. My colleagues at the NAACP Casper branch came off looking cordial and knowledgeable in Jeremy Fugleberg's excellent Casper Star-Tribune article. KKK Kleagle John Abarr seemed a bit cluelesss, but redeemed himself by joining the NAACP and even kicking in an additional $20 donation. This is a good thing for an organization that has a tough time recruiting members and raising funds in a place that's subtitled "The Equality State" and often falls short of living up to that vaunted title.

The CST's Fugleberg is following the continuing drama on Twitter. You can too.

Lest you think that the KKK is the quaint little Christian social organization portrayed by Abarr, read deeper into the many media articles.

Not quite sure about the KKK's history in Wyoming (little help here, Phil Roberts!). But I do know a bit about the Klan in Colorado. It was a powerful organization in Denver during the 1920s. Unable to find enough blacks to torment, the KKK picked on Irish and Italians and Chicanos -- all Catholics targeted by the Nativist "100% American" elements in the KKK. Hooded Klansmen burned crosses in my Irish grandfather's South Denver neighborhood, in Italian Pueblo and throughout the state. Hipsters in Denver's pricey Wash Park may not know this, but people who once occupied their renovated houses used to avoid walking around their own neighborhood. My mom and her brother and sister were chased home from their Catholic school by protestant kids from South High. They threw rocks at them and called them "rednecks" because the Irish tended to have sunburned necks from working out in the sun all day. They labored on the railroad and on construction projects and on farms east of town.

The Klan elected a Governor and had the Denver mayor and a passel of Republican legislators in their pocket. But their power waned as people grew tired of their hateful, regressive agenda.

Hard to imagine solidly Democratic Denver as a Klan bastion. It's hard to believe that the Klan still exists in 2013. Let's hope the dialogue that started in Casper continues.

Hope.

WYO Shakespeare Festival Company explores "the quality of mercy" Saturday in Cheyenne

Shylock, Portia, Antonio and the crew from the Wyoming Shakespeare Festival Company come to Cheyenne Saturday for a production of "The Merchant of Venice." Curtain rises outdoors at 5 p.m. in the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens. It's free -- bring friends, a picnic, folding chair and an umbrella.

The WSFC works out of Lander and tours the state each summer with a different offering of The Bard. Friday evening, the troupe faced severe thunderstorm warnings in Torrington. But nature's elements don't faze the WSFC. Last July, the players were soaked to the bone as they weathered Cheyenne's only serious thunderstorm in the summer of '12. "King Lear" never looked so good or so wet.

The players are led by Diane Springford, who received a Governor's Arts Award for her efforts. The players are volunteers who devote many hours to rehearsals and travel. Have you ever been involved in local theatre? I have, and am continually amazed by the devotion of actors, directors, costumers, back stage crew, set builders, ticket takers, etc. It takes a village to put on a show. The reward? Putting on a great show. It feeds the ego and challenges you in ways you never anticipated. As in any artistic pursuit, there are good performances and bad ones. You get this sinking feeling when you blow a line or miss a cue. A good performance brings applause and euphoria. 

Shylock is a controversial figure among Shakespeare's characters. This intro was on the title page of the first quarto:  

The most excellent History of the Merchant of Venice. With the extreme cruelty of Shylock the Jew towards the Merchant....

Shylock, the Jewish money lender, is seen through the eyes of a playwright in 1596 Christian England. In the play, set in Venice, Shylock can only be redeemed by converting to Christianity. At the time, the Inquisition was still in effect in Italy and most of Catholic Europe.  

I see the play through the eyes of a 2013 American, one who knows about pogroms and the Holocaust. Today's audiences have to push beyond ourselves to experience the lives of these historic characters and to marvel at Shakespeare's language. As Portia says:

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes...

Mercy.

See you in the gardens this evening. 

On St. Patrick's Day weekend, I ponder the possibility of a Pope Howdy Doody I

As a kid, I bore a startling resemblance to TV's Howdy Doody.

Each St. Patrick’s Day, I ponder what it means to be an Irish-American. This year, as a new pope takes the reins of Mother Church, I’m also pondering about what it means to be Irish Catholic.

I just had a flashback. I get those occasionally. I wonder if it’s my damaged heart playing tricks on my brain.

Back in those black-and-white days of the 1950s, my younger brother Dan and I found ourselves in the same ward at Denver Mercy Hospital. We had double pneumonia, which is twice as troublesome as single pneumonia. It sound worse, too, doesn’t it? Our mother was a nurse at Mercy, a graduate of the hospital’s nurses’ training program at the tail end of World War II. 

The Mercy nuns were in charge. They wore full habits back then, which lent them an air of authority and mystery seasoned with a dollop of menace. They were neither the horror of the nuns portrayed in some books or plays written by lapsed Catholics. Nor were they the sweethearts portrayed in “Sister Act” or “The Sound of Music.” They were tough yet fair. They seemed to treat Dan and I a bit better than the others. This was probably due to our mother.

One day, Dan seemed to have a brainstorm. He waited until one of the nuns was in the ward, and he sat up and said, “I want to be a priest.”

The nun scurried over. “A priest, is it?” The Mercy nuns all spoke with an Irish brogue, yet another import from that benighted isle. 

“Yes, sister.” Dan beamed angelically. 

“That’s a good boy,” said the good sister, patting Dan on the arm. “And how would you like some ice cream, Daniel boy?”

“Thank you, sister.” More of the beaming. My brother had black hair and blue eyes, Black Irish like my mother. I had bright orange hair and was covered with freckles from head to toe. The kids at school called me Howdy Doody, who was a red-haired, freckle-faced TV puppet. He was an agreeable sort but dopey looking. I didn’t like him.

The nun returned with Dan’s ice cream. None for us. After all, we didn’t want to be priests. This was the highest calling a kid could attain. Parish priests ruled the Catholic roost. We know now that some of them were less than saintly. But back in those patriarchal days, they could do no wrong.

The next time a nun entered the room, Tommy piped up: “I want to be a priest.” The nun came over, patted Tommy on the head and said he was getting some ice cream too. So half of the kids in the ward now had ice cream and I had none. Before the fourth kid, the one in the bed by the wall, could speak up, I also said: “I want to be a priest.”

The nun walked over, put her hands on her hips sand said, “I suppose you want to be a priest so you can have some ice cream.”

“No sister.” I was no dummy, although I looked like one. “I had a dream. In it, I was a priest.” 

This got her attention.  “A dream?”

I nodded. “Yes sister.”

“And in this dream were you eating ice cream?”

“No sister. I was dressed like a priest and was saying mass.”

“You’re a fine lad, saying mass in a dream.  You almost could call that a vision.”

“Yes, sister.” 

She looked down at me. “We’re out of ice cream. I’ll get you a popsicle.” She frowned and walked out.

“Copycat,” said Dan.

“Not,” I said.

“Popsicle.” Tommy snickered. He bit into his ice cream bar.

I got a cherry popsicle. The nun broke it in two so the kid in the far bed could have some. 

As I ate the popsicle and stared at the two ice cream eaters, I vowed that next time I would be quicker on the draw and fake my priestly calling with much more alacrity than I had earlier. Perhaps I should be a bishop? Or pope? Too grandiose, perhaps. But imagine the world’s surprise when Howdy Doody the First donned the papal garments and those bitchin’ red shoes.

The Argentine pope and Borges and a building inspired by Dante's "Divine Comedy"

Our new pope, Francis, is from Argentina and is the former Archbishop of Buenos Aires.

I say "our pope" because I'm a cradle Catholic, attended Catholic School and received all the sacraments in the church, except for holy orders and extreme unction (I'm holding off on that last one). But because I'm a Liberal and don't go to church, I'm usually considered a cultural Catholic or a lapsed Catholic or not a Catholic at all. Listening to NPR during this popapalooza, a conservative caller agreed that the new pope should adopt a zero tolerance policy on sexual predators. But she went on to say that the new pope should also adopt a zero tolerance policy for Liberal Catholics who criticize the church. People like me.

No matter my Catholic status, I'm pleased that the new pope is from a country other than a European one. I know very little about Argentina. I know that the great writer Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentine, as is Manuel Puig ("Kiss of the Spider Woman") and Julio Cortazar, the "modern master of the short story." Alfonsina Storni was a great modernist poet from Argentina. She's the character in the song Alfonsina y el Mar, based on Alfonsina's suicide by walking into the sea. The country has a great literary tradition. In fact, retired writers with at least five books get a special pension from the government. I was ready to pack my bags for Buenos Aires when I discovered that you have to actually be from Argentina and write in Spanish or one of the native languages to qualify. Que?

I wish American writers got literary pensions. We are, after all, part of Mitt Romney's 47 percent. We just take verbs and nouns with no thought of ever giving them back. I'd be happy to give them back if I could find a publisher.

Did you know that here is a building in Buenos Aires inspired by Dante Alighieri's "The Divine Comedy." You can take a look at it here. I don't know of a single American skyscraper inspired by a literary classic.

Argentina was also site of "the dirty war" of the 1970s in which the ruling junta was responsible for the 30,000 "disappeared." The church was criticized for its cozy relationship with the generals whose death squads were murdering at will.

From a story in the Digital Journal:

"We have much to be sorry for," Father Ruben Captianio told the New York Times in 2007. "The attitude of the Church was scandalously close to the dictatorship to such an extent that I would say it was of a sinful degree." Read more: http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/345612#ixzz2NTVKbz3X

Read still more on this subject in The Guardian.

I wish Pope Francis a long life. Let's hope he has time to read, and to ponder his role in his country's past.