Word Back: Let’s Make America Again Again

Again.

Make America Great Again

I’ve been exploring this phrase as it has taken over conversations, rallies, bots, blather, mind games, etc.

It’s a work of genius, really. It gets everyone on the same page. It does, if you are a true believer in Trumpism. That’s what 70-some million people voted for, right? America is no longer great so we needed to fix it. And we will put in place a supervisor who really has never done anything I could call great. But let’s pretend he has and see what magic time in our recent history he wants to return to, revisit, make great again.

So many T voters were elderly as am I. They remember a time when a middle-class suburban lifestyle ruled lives and airwaves. Our Southwest Denver neighborhood was mostly White Anglo-Saxon Protestant or WASP. Not the kind of WASP who grew up in suburban New York City or Chicago. Our Dads made less money than yours. I say Dads because that’s who left the house to work.

Mom was a housewife or householder – she held the place together. Dad was a contract something-or-other for the Martin Company in Lakewood. I never really know what Dad did for a living. Martin eventually merged with American-Marietta and then Lockheed to become part of aerospace and defense work. Martin got his start building airplanes and so did Lockheed. Martin ranked 14^th among defense contractors and built the B-26 Marauder bomber and the B-29 Superfortress that dropped The Big Ones on Japan. Lockheed was most famous for building the P-38 Lightning, the twin-tailed warplane that all of us kids bought in model kits.

We knew our warplanes in the fifties. We were fed by movies, TV,  and comic books. We heard some stories from our fathers but nothing of great import because that’s the way it was. Dad was an infantryman, a Signal Corps radioman who marched through Europe with the rest of the grunts. His unit was lost in the Ardennes during the Bulge but eventually made it back to American lines. I wondered what it was like, being lost in a war zone, but he never elaborated on it. I saw the fellow vets huddled around the patio bar at or the grill during parties and knew they were telling war stories but we were never invited in. So we had to read about them in books or imagine them.

Most of the neighbor men were soldiers and sailors. No fighter pilots on our street and we would have known if there were any. The dad of the kid next door was a plumber. The kid’s name was John and last name Lennon. He went on to become famous as one of the Beatles. Just kidding. I don’t know what happened to him. On our other side lived an older childless couple. They were nice enough. What I wonder about is what they thought about living next to us, one of the largest families on the street. We were a rowdy bunch. Loud. They complained when Dad installed a set of monkey bars in the backyard. It was perilously close to the older neighbors’ fence and it apparently gave them nightmares about one of us swinging wildly on the bars and breaking our backs on their fence. Looking back, we think it hilarious but, older now, we have our own nightmares about injured children and grandchildren.

The man who lived behind us was an army mess sergeant. An FBI agent lived down the street. Across from, him was the only Hispanic family on the block and Catholics like us. One of the boys was the age of me and my brother and we rode bikes together. He took a spill and was impaled by his handlebars. They rushed him to the hospital. When he reappeared, he showed us his stitches and said his spleen was removed. A spleen? Who knew we had one?

We rode our bikes to Bear Creek and played war. Firecracker wars! No danger there. The creek tumbled from the high peaks but was tame by the time it reached the flatlands. Our father once pole-vaulted across the creek and we thought it amazing. Dad showed us how to skip rocks. We rode our bikes down steep hills and crashed in a cloud of dust and rocks. We explored the mall digs, daring each other to ride down into the holes.

We walked to school four blocks away. It was rare, even when it snowed, to see Moms bundle the kids into station wagons and shuttle them to school. I drive past my local elementary school at the end of the day and there is a traffic jam of SUVs idling on the street. Maybe that’s what MAGA people want? Make schools close enough to walk to! Well, that would mean more schools and more taxes to pay for them and the school library might have a book about two dads or a boy who wants to be a girl and all hell would break loose at PTA meetings.

Why can’t we go back to the days of PTA meetings where the only squabble was how many cakes to bake for the Halloween Walk? You remember that, right? Kind of like musical chairs but if you win you get to take a cake home and hope you are there early enough, dressed in your Popeye costume, to win a chocolate one and not one of those yucky coconut ones. A coconut cake! That mom must be a commie!

Ah, those good ol’ days.

Note to my son: Thank you for sending me the book “Dad, I Want to Hear Your Story: A Father’s Guided Journal to Share His Life and Love.” I will fill out some of the pages but most memories can be found on these pages which I’ve been keeping for 20 years. Most stories are true, although I have been known to take liberties. If I still covered high school sports for A Major Metropolitan Newspaper, I would be much more careful in my reporting. I would take time for better fact-checking and less snark. Enjoy!

"From "Brokeback Mountain" to "Beyond Brokeback" -- the long life of a short story

On Friday, as I drove the pass back to Cheyenne, I thought about the impact and mystery of the arts. I had just seen a staged reading of “Beyond Brokeback” at the Shepard Symposium for Social Justice at UW. “Beyond Brokeback” is another chapter in the story of “Brokeback Mountain,” a short story written by Wyoming writer Annie Proulx back in the last century. She wrote it in the mid-1990s and it made its debut in the The New Yorker magazine in 1997. It was in Proulx’s 1999 collection Close Range: Wyoming Stories. The first edition of the book featured illustrations by renowned Western artist William Matthews. A signed copy is worth a lot, I’m told by eBay.

That, as we say in the short story writing business, is that. The New Yorker copies get recycled and books are read and put up on the home library shelf. Its bookstore shelf life, especially in the dark ages of the 1990s, was probably a couple of months. The book was used in the Wyoming Humanities Council “Reading Wyoming” series. One of the stories, “Pair a Spurs,” was excerpted in Deep West: A Literary Tour of Wyoming by the Wyoming Center for the Book. I co-edited the book with Wyoming Poet Laureate David Romtvedt and then-director of the Center for the Book, Linn Rounds.

So the story's already had more visibility than is usual for the genre. Annie Proulx is a Pulitzer Prize winner, after all, for the The Shipping News, set in Newfoundland but written in Wyoming. The critics liked it, yet many Wyomingites did not. The stories featured (in no particular order) a crazy mother who tossed her infant into a creek, a half-skinned steer, wanton hussies, a smattering of drunks, a talking tractor, crazy old coots and violence a-plenty. I, for one, liked the talking tractor in “The Bunchgrass Edge of the World.” And I was proud of myself for tracking down and reading the Icelandic Saga that was the basis for “The Half-Skinned Steer.” 

I read some – but not all – of the stories in Close Range. I missed “Brokeback Mountain.” It wasn’t the subject matter of two young cowboys having a homosexual relationship. I just didn’t get around to it until I listened to the entire audiobook during a long drive across the state. The tale ended as I drove a secondary road in Fremont County. I pulled over to take a deep breath so that I wouldn’t cry on company time. The scene with the shirts in the closet was one of the most powerful endings of any American story. I sat there on the side of the road, contemplating this very touching love story between two men of the West.

As I mentioned, Close Range was not beloved here in The Equality State. The former state parks director, a Wyoming native and voracious reader, said that he liked the stories but wished that they had been written about Nebraska. During a drive to Cody with a colleague, I excitedly plugged in the Close Range audiobook. We listened to the first two stories. After the second concluded, my colleague asked if we could listen to something else. “The stories are depressing,” she said. We listened to an oldies station the rest of the way.

I’ve spoken with Annie Proulx several times. At an art museum opening in Casper, she told me that she was dismayed that people thought her stories about Wyoming cowboys and barmaids and oil patch workers were inaccurate and hard to believe. Proulx, a dogged researcher, said that the stories were based on real incidents dug from the archives. She changed the names and added details and gave it her own writerly touch. The author was already working on another collection of Wyoming stories – she did three in all.

We skip ahead to 2005. “Brokeback Mountain,” the film by Ang Lee starring Jake Gyllenhaal and the ill-fated Heath Ledger, opened with much fanfare. Theatres in some small towns refused to show the film. There was even a question whether it would be screened anywhere in Wyoming (it was).  The film made a lot of money and gets some Oscar nominations. At the Oscar ceremony in 2006, novelist Larry McMurtry and screenwriter Diana Ossana won the award for best adapted screenplay from Proulx’s story.

Meanwhile, thousands of people were leaving comments on the Ultimate Brokeback Forum web site. Their comments were angry, sad, sweet and funny. They arrived from all over the world and from all kinds of people young and old, gay and straight, rural and urban. Site founder Dave Cullen says that the site recorded 500,000 posts the first year. Another 50,000 to 100,000 lurkers came by to see what was going on.

A lot, as it turned out.

Cullen culled the commentary and poetry and song lyrics and came up with enough intriguing narrative to fill a book, Beyond Brokeback: Impact of a Film. On December 11, 2010, the fifth anniversary of the movie’s release, Gregory Hinton debuted his adaptation of “Beyond Brokeback” at the Autry Museum in L.A. The museum is named after its benefactor, cowboy crooner Gene Autry who died one of the richest men in America. The show was part of the museum’s “Out West” series, a clever bit of word play.

The Autry event comes with its own connection to Wyoming (funny how they keep on coming up). Gregory Hinton grew up in Cody where his father was editor of the newspaper. He acknowledges the sad fact that many LGBT kids in rural places depart rather than stay, believing (for many good reasons) that there is no place for them. They flee to cities where being gay is not an excuse for revulsion or name-calling or worse. As one commentator said on the Ultimate Brokeback Forum, there are three items from the film that every gay young man knows: the closet, a bloody shirt, and a tire iron.

Hinton was invited to present “Beyond Brokeback” at the Shepard Symposium. This symposium is named for Matthew Shepard, the young gay man from Casper who was severely beaten and left for dead on an October night in Laramie. The theme of this year’s Shepard Symposium was “CREATE: Activism Toward Social Justice.”

Friday’s “Beyond Brokeback” staged reading featured these talented people: James Bowyer, Lee Hodgson, John J. O’Hagan, Peter Parolin, Hannah Peterson, Katie Stearns and Katrina Zook. Bowyer also played the piano and sang along with Zook. Shawn Kirchner wrote the original songs. The reading was directed by O’Hagan and produced by Hinton and O’Hagan. It’s important to name the names.  Not only did they do a terrific job on stage, they breathed life into people they’d never met. We heard stories from a farmer who’d just tended to his 95 cows, a 57-year-old divorced woman who was making some big changes, and a gay Jackson, Wyo., resident who loved his natural surroundings but was mystified by the prejudice he received from humans. A “senior division” gay man regretted his lonely, anonymous suburban life – yet still was willing to give love another try. A married woman took her tough-guy husband to the movie and was shocked when he admitted crying at the sad ending. “He’s going to get lucky tonight,” she quipped.

These were the voices of real people shaped by the art of a writer and told by actors and teachers and singers. They transformed the work. And it lives on.

What can be made of this long history of this short story turned script turned movie turned web site turned book turned script turned stage performance? It’s miraculous how one creative work can beget so many other creative works. The movie received most of the attention. But the saga now is entering another phase.

As mentioned earlier, Greg Hinton knows what it’s like to grow up different in the rural West. His formative years go back a few decades. But when you survey the state now, you realize it hasn’t gotten much better. Witness the foofaraw over the “Erase the Hate” banner removed from the Wheatland schools last year. Witness the huge outpouring of anti-gay sentiment during Wyoming’s recent legislative session. Rural school continue to reject the state’s anti-bullying program because school boards, stacked with fundamentalists, fear that anti-bullying has an agenda to protect LGBT youth. It does, of course. No bullying means no bullying – period. No bullying of gays or lesbians or ethnic minorities (only 8 percent of the state’s population and less in rural areas) or those with physical or mental or psychological disabilities. All that these small-town school boards see is what they hear in their tight-knit circles and close-minded churches and (of course) Fox “News.” It’s no surprise that these rural areas send some of the most close-minded people to the state legislature.

Greg Hinton wants to take “Beyond Brokeback” to small towns and rural communities around the state that shaped him. His goal is to put scripts in the hands of teachers and ranchers and home-school moms and have them read the commentary from “Beyond Brokeback.” It would be entertaining and educational. It may open up a few minds. Audience members might even see themselves in there somewhere.  As Hinton said when he introduced the staged reading on Friday:

"I was born on the Fort Peck Reservation in Montana, grew up in Cody, and went to school in Boulder, Colo. I experienced bias as a rural-born Western man.”

But he felt forced to leave the places that he loved. “But not everybody is leaving anymore. That’s what today is all about.”

I am a straight man (“senior division”) who was born in the West, grew up in the South, and returned to the West because I love it. I didn’t experience the same kind of bias that LGBT youth did in the West or the South. I saw it, though, and now know many who experienced it then -- and are experiencing it now. LGBT youth need to hear the voices of people like them. They are not alone. And "it gets better."

If you’re interested in hearing more about Greg Hinton’s project, or you have an interest in bringing a staged reading to your community, send me a comment here or look me up on Facebook.

Washington Monthly: On the edge of the next real estate boom -- and Utah shows the way

So many things to like in this Washington Monthly piece about the The Next Real Estate Boom. Western cities such as Salt Lake City, Denver and Portland are leading the way towards close-in walkable communities. But it's not about big chunks of federal money dropped on big projects. It's about private-sector funding and streetcars and affordable houses and zoning law changes and energy-saving construction. Local collaborative efforts. Democrats and Republicans and Independents and Libertarians and Greenies and Tea Partiers working together for the common good.

Dogs and cats, living together...

Just go read it.

Something there is that doesn't love a lawn

My friend John in Cheyenne has a lawn full of weeds. And he doesn’t mind. Deep down, he has some suburban guilt, I’m sure, a yearning for a yard full of lush bluegrass. But he seldom voices it. He’s single, recently retired, and travels often, leaving his cats in my care. I shake my head at his weed patch, underfed and under-watered, and then I go into his house and feed and water his two cats. He loves his pets, but he’s given up on lawns. He mows every couple weeks, just so he won’t get ticketed by the weed police. That’s the extent of his lawn maintenance regimen.

I spend too much time on my lawn. When my wife and I bought this house in 2005, we loved the big backyard. It was November but we could tell that the present owner took care of his place. Mature trimmed trees, thick weed-free grass, and flower beds bedded down for winter. The house was 45 years old but fully renovated with a big kitchen. I loved the new stove, my wife loved the polished wood floors, my daughter loved the basement and its huge bedroom and private entrance and cable-ready TV and big closet.

This is our second summer in the house. We spend as much time in the backyard as we can, since summer is fleeting. We play fetch with the dogs and play bocce ball on weekends. As I cook over my 15-year-old gas grill, I sip my beer, look out on the lawn, and admire my handiwork. I prepped the lawn last September and fertilized it in spring. I enjoyed mowing the first few times but now it’s turned old hat and I’m thinking of drafting my daughter to the task. But it looks great, my patch of green.

The city lets me water my greensward on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, before 9 a.m. and after 5 p.m. I water the old-fashioned way, dragging the house up one side and down the other. My neighbor urges me to get a sprinkler system but I’m cool to the idea. A sprinkler system would take me out of the picture. I might forget the fact that grass takes water and we live in a semi-arid climate. My liberal self takes me to task. "Christ on a crutch, man, don’t you know there’s a drought on?" I do. We’re ten years into a seven-year drought. No end in sight.

And still I water the lawn. I love my patch of grass. It's not really cool to say so, but there you have it.

I have a secret long-range plan. Not so secret, really, because last weekend I pressed my family into service as rock gatherers. We traveled up to southern Wyoming's Laramie Range and collected skull-sized red granite chunks along the roadside. We brought them down to Cheyenne and loaded them into the backyard and made a rock garden. First we had to dig out the weeds and place the big rocks on the bare ground in an artistic way. Then we sprinkled river rocks amongst those and now we have 50 square feet of decorative rock. Add that to the 100 square feet or so already dressed in rock, and I guess that five percent of the yard is now xeriscaped. I plan to add another 50-100 feet before the first snow. Give me five more summers, and half of the yard will not need watering. We’ll keep a swatch of grass big enough for bocce ball, fetch, and dog poop. But that’s it.

As I labor, John and his cats watch me from the picture window. "Poor sucker," they say (and purr). "Doesn’t he know that weeds are the best cure for a big yard?"