Then this morning I read an article on the New America Media website that struck a nerve. According to writer Andrew Lam, “non-Korean Asian-Americans are now heaving a sigh of relief” following the release of the information that the Virginia Tech shooter was a 23-year-old South Korean. Lam’s article, entitled “Let It Be Some Other ‘Asian,’” catalogues the emotional turmoil that faced various Asian-American groups as they waited to learn the ethnicity of the murderer.

The article clearly shows how quickly our society attributes negative actions and their causal characteristics to an entire ethnic group. Referring to the suicide-killer, one Muslim Pakistani noted: “If he’s a Paki and a Muslim, we might as well pack up and go home.” Think that’s just melodrama? Consider the Chinese-American Virginia Tech student originally believed by many to be the killer. Lam notes: “More than 200,000 people have visited his [blogsite] since the shootings and many left angry, racist epithets against [the] Chinese.”

As I read Lam’s article, a thought occurred to me. Cho Seung-hui didn’t kill himself and thirty-three other people because he was Korean. He did it because he was an English major. Recall, for a moment, the great writers who have taken their own lives. The number is, in fact, quite staggering and includes some of the greatest writers of the past century:

• Earnest Hemingway
• Virginia Woolf
• Hunter S. Thompson
• Yukio Mishima
• Sylvia Plath
• John Kennedy Toole
• John O’Brien
• Juan Carlos Gumucio
• Vladimir Mayakovsky

Granted, this is just a quick and incomplete list. If you’re still not convinced, head over to Wikipedia, where you can review a list of over 200 writers and journalists who committed suicide. Ironically, it’s the only profession-based suicide list Wikipedia maintains. And while I doubt the list is exhaustive and or even accurate, it certainly is racially and ethnically diverse.

Consider also the type of person that actually majors in English (and I should know; I’m one of them). They’re all emotions and insecurity, changing their wardrobe and hairstyle with the weather. They read too much and exercise too little. They actually like to watch foreign films. They probably experiment with drugs.

Isn’t that the kind of person that freak out one day and kill thirty-three people?

If you’re an English major (and you’ve not already writing a profanity-laden comment below), you may be feeling a bit annoyed and possibly insulted. It could be my negative characterization English majors angers you. You may think my generalizations are based on erroneous assumptions and idiotic prejudices. You may be asking yourself if a lunkhead like me really believes that thirty-three people died at Virginia Tech because a student chose English as his major.

Of course, I don’t. I entertain the odd notion (based upon the limited information that has been released in the news) that Cho Seung-hui was a mentally disturbed young man who desperately needed help. But if someone is simple-minded enough to attribute Cho Seung-hui’s propensity towards violence to an entire group, then they ought to at least have the decency to choose the statistically appropriate group—even if that group does include people who are like the people we want to be and not just the people we want to blame.

You can read Andrew Lam’s article here.

Along the way, I’ve received a lot of encouragement from several individuals. Even now, I’m reluctant to shut the blog down completely. I’m still struggling with several issues relating to this blog, and writing in general, and I don’t want to make any rash decisions.

So I’ve decided to do this: I’ll restart the blog and continue it until July 1, 2007. I may make some changes in the website and the blog and I may not. It just depends on how much time I have in the next ten weeks.

Meanwhile, I’d like to do a roll call. If you’re reading this site, post a comment here. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy, just a quick note saying whether or not you’re finding anything of value here. In the end, it will help me decide whether or not to pay the web hosting bill when it comes due.

Regards,
The Fisherman

Again, it’s not much—I mean, the name is somewhat unique—but I diid finally manage to beat out a certain Alaskan fishing retreat with a similar name.

All in all, it’s better than a stick in the eye.

If you’d like to read the essay, I’ve restored it to it’s original place on my website.

Most of us remember where we were on the morning of September 11, 2001, when terrorists hijacked airliners and flew them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Myself, I was sitting in my office at the law firm where I worked, preparing for a hearing later that morning in bankruptcy court. It was one of several hearings I had over the next few days, and I was anxious about not having enough time to prepare for them. I had arrived early that morning, probably a little after six a.m., early enough to be the first person in the office.

As usual, I was working in silence. Maybe I had a CD playing; certainly not the radio or the televison.

As nine o’clock approached and no one else came to work, I grew more and more annoyed. Where was my assistant? Where were the paralegals? Did someone cancel work and not tell me?

At that moment, my client called. Her voice was excited. She wanted to know if there would be court today.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t there be?”

“Don’t you know what’s going on?” Her voice was thick with a mixture of emotions. “Go find a television.”

I ended the call and sat for a moment, listening to the soft electric sounds that make up the background noise of any office. I glanced at my watch. It was now after nine o’clock. I stood up and went off in search of a television, alarmed at the darkened hallways and empty offices. In a conference room, I turned on a television just in time to see a thick column of smoke swirl away from a skyscraper. Words on the screen identified the building as the World Trade Center. I thought the building was on fire. I didn’t have a clue what was going on.

*

Court was cancelled that day.

Six years as a lawyer and court had never been cancelled. I had driven to court in rainstorms, in windstorms, in snowstorms when other drivers had refused to budge from the security of their garages. I had driven to court during a travel advisory. But on this morning, as the nation sat watching the horror of the day unfold, court was cancelled.

My client was ecstatic. Despite my assurances that Court would, indeed, resume again and that the final outcome of the hearing was inevitable, she received news of the postponement like a death row inmate receiving news of a pardon.

Later, as I sat in a conference room watching the news, listening to the assorted theories of reporters, anchorpersons, the paralegals in our office, the other attorneys, I felt a bit disconcerted. Once again, a major event had happened—perhaps the major event of this century—and I had almost missed it because I was sitting in my office preparing for a hearing the outcome of which was already decided by law and precedent. No matter how I tried to justify the situation in my mind, one thing was crystal clear. The law was an ugly, jealous mistress.

I watched for a few moments longer, then made my way back to my office to prepare for the next hearing.

*

The day became known as 9-11. Songs have been written about it, television shows and movies have been made. Whoopie Goldberg made sentimental references to the day in the next Oscar telecast. Commentator after commentator referenced up the same analogy: that the landscape of our nation had changed—in New York City, literally, and figuratively for the rest of us.

My life changed after 9-11. These changes and the events of 9-11 are unrelated in any respect except for time, but even five years later, when I think about 9-11, I think about how I was sitting in an office preparing for an irrelevant bankruptcy hearing and how I almost missed the single, most important event of the decade. This idea haunts me. Within a year, I accepted the fact that I hated my job as an attorney and hated the way it consumed my life, and within two years I had changed careers. For much of the rest of the world, 9-11 came to symbolize a single moment of horror and terror that changed their lives. For me, 9-11 is a reminder of how much I lost while working as an attorney, and how many of the hours and how much of the effort was simply futile. 9-11 made me realize there wasn’t enough money in the world to pay for a job that I hated, and that demanded I sacrifice everything I loved to satisfy its insatiable appetite.

The commentators were right. The landscape had indeed changed.

Long Distances

1

I never saw her eyes.

2

Late for the train, I jog towards open doors on work-weary feet, fumbling with my commuter pass while trying not to drop my briefcase. Panting, I grab the metal railing and pull myself up onto the car even as the electric bell warns that the doors are closing. The car is hot and crowded, full of dead-eyed college students wearing backpacks and headphones and long-haired old men that stare openly at bare-legged young women. Of course, there are no seats.

I grab a strap, jerking a bit as the train pulls forward. Behind me, two guys debate dropping a class, their voices loud and violent. A woman stands next to me, her heavy body banging mine every time the train rocks. I rest my briefcase on the floor between my feet and wait for an empty seat.

3

At the next stop, one person, a guy with black plastic glasses and baby blue cd player, slips off even as four more climb aboard. I shake my head and hope for better odds at the next stop.

4

She sits alone on the end of a bench seat, her back pressed against the window. If I wanted, I could reach out my hand and caress her single red braid. Tight black sunglasses wrap around her face and a backpack rests on her lap. A thin black cell phone hangs by the side of her face, but that face does not move, not even her pink mouth.

I glance away, watching a gray apartment complex pass the window. A plastic sign tied to the front of the building offers free cable and a pass on the second month’s rent.

Glancing back, I see she still hasn’t moved. The arm has not adjusted. The bag is in its place. The face and lips are motionless.

I cannot see her eyes.

It’s a shield, then, I think as I look away again. Something to keep the old guys afraid and the young guys honest. She’s not beautiful, but cute and on the train cute is just as dangerous as beautiful any day. Maybe more so. Smart idea that, holding a cell phone to your ear and disappearing into your own world.

Then I see movement. She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and chews on it.

Now her free hand moves, up to her face, rubbing her jaw like she has a toothache. This is also a shield, for behind her fingers, she talks into the phone.

5

The next stop is better, but still not perfect. Four off and two on. A seat frees up near the front of the car, but I don’t move.

She talks softly, pink lips moving behind pale fingers, the bag clutched on her lap. Words drift towards me. “My position.” “Away again.” “Your Mom and I.”

I grip the strap tighter. Hang on, another stop coming up.

6

This stop is a transfer and the car thins out. I step forward and sit down, close to her and next to another student, a wide-eyed girl who glances up from her textbook to give me one very tight smile. Now I’m close, close enough for our legs to touch. I stare straight ahead, watching the names of stops flow across an electronic marquee at the front of the car, watching as the shadows of poles and buildings flash across the plastic seats, and watching her sit like a motionless Buddha in jeans and black t-shirt. She still talks into hand, but now I can hear most of the words.

I lean back and sigh, another tired commuter waiting to get home, watching shadows and light dance across the floor along the way.

7

“I understand your position. I understood it last summer. This is an important opportunity for you. Okay, I get it. But why can’t you come here for the weekend? Just the weekend. Your Mom and I, we’ll come get you and take you back on Sunday.”

A pause.

“I can’t come there. School started this week. Please, just try and understand my position. I have classes and homework. I can’t just run up every weekend like I did last summer. You know? Can’t you think about my position?”

Another pause.

“No, it isn’t fair. But not like you say. If this is the way it is, then I won’t get to see you until next May.” A brief pause while she sucked in air; the rough whistle is clear and audible. “I do want to see you, but I can’t come there. Not now.”

8

The train turns slowly; the next stop is mine. But I don’t move. Everything is in engulfed in shadow, as the train slides into a canyon of tall buildings. People move toward the exits, others get on. Some kid laughs wildly and calls out, “Go down four blocks. It’s four blocks. Just go!” Someone bumps me and I sway like a stalk of wheat.

9

“No, I don’t understand. You said this wasn’t your busy time. If you won’t come here now, then when? I know you won’t come during the busy time. No, you won’t.”

The words stop, then start again quickly.

“Stop it. I am not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m really trying to understand. No, I don’t think you are. I can’t leave now. Not again.” She says something else, but I cannot hear the words because we’ve pulled into the next stop.

10

The girl next to me stands quickly, closing her book with soft slap, and moves around me to get out. I swivel to let her pass, then swivel back in place, a human gate. I’m seven blocks away from my regular stop; by the next stop, I’ll be almost sixteen away. Then, I’ll have to wait and ride a train back. Maybe I should just get off here.

The electric bell sounds and the doors close with a shudder.

11

“No, I can’t do it.”

12

The train rocks back and forth, windows lit with the setting sun. I’m tired and depressed. The words have stopped completely. If I had just boarded the train and sat down in this seat, next to this Buddha in a t-shirt and jeans, close enough to caress her single red braid, I might think it was a smart idea to hold a dead cell phone to your ear and disappear into a world of your own.

Yes, I might think just that until I noticed the wet lines on her face.

13

She stays on for two more stops. This train rolls on and on, an exercise in eternity. Shortly before her stop, I hear the words, “I’ll call you on Friday.” Today is Tuesday which means the time between now and Friday will be measured in eons. The phone never moves from the side of her face, not even when she stands up and walks off the train.

14

I never saw her eyes.

From “Tip the Scales” by Rise Against

My laptop computer crashed awhile ago, leaving me without a means of updating my blog short of bullying the kids off the computers at out local public library. Naturally, the situation was critical, requiring my constant attention and several pleading, groveling phone calls. By the time I was done, I managed to acquire a new computer, a new monitor, a new video card and… well, you get the idea.

With my mind and my hands focused on all the tasks associated with rebuilding my computer identity (and it only takes one crash to prove just how much of our lives and our psyches are invested in these annoying little electronic boxes), you’d think I’d have little time for anything else. Still, in the midst of this electronic apocalypse, I’ve managed to land meaningful, full-time employment. I’m not sure how that happened. Maybe it took place at night or in the early afternoon or some other time when I’m known to be sleeping. No matter, the consequence is very real: I can no longer hide within my house, having my groceries delivered and generally living like a character from a Faulkner novel.

I’ve been outed—out of my house, at least.

It is said that energy, like work and natural gas, expands to fill a vacuum. My new computer system runs faster, has a bigger monitor, downloads and uploads like a dream, makes my breakfast … you get the idea. So, here’s to hoping I can update this blog a little more regularly now that my computer runs faster than I do…

Paraphrasing Santana (the philosopher, not the rock star): don’t learn history and you’ll repeat it within your lifetime.

I recall my father’s horrified face the first time he saw me using a calculator to complete my geometry homework. He stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at me, hunched over the kitchen table with my four pound geometry textbook, the inevitable pad of graph paper, a pencil, and, of course, my cool black Texas Instruments scientific calculator.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, staring at the calculator. If I had been having a beer with my homework, I don’t think he could have looked more surprised.

I told him it was my calculator.

“It’s your what?” And then, before I could answer, he added, “You’re cheating.”

Now it was my turn to look surprised. “What?”

He came over and snatched up my calculator. “You can’t use this to do your homework.”

“What do you want me to use?” I fired back. “A slide rule?”

“I want you to use your head!” he yelled.

I assured him that not only was I expected to use it to do my homework, I was expected to use it in my class.

Strangely enough, my father truly believed I was lying. He refused to return the calculator and so, on that night, my homework did not get done. The next day, I had no choice but to offer up the situation to my geometry teacher as an explanation for why my homework wasn’t done. My teacher, more interested in my mind than my homework, kindly sent a note home to my father explaining, yes, the students were expected to use calculators both in class and at home.

When my father got the note, he called my teacher. At home. At night. If I recall, he was probably a few beers into the evening himself. What followed was condemnation of the educational system, in general, and this teacher’s skills, in particular. Using calculators in school, my father cried to the skies. What the hell is the world coming to?

The truth is, I barely made it through calculus and I assure you all the supercomputers in the universe wouldn’t changed that outcome. I’m just not good at math. I can learn it, but I don’t like to. My skills and interests lie in another direction. And to this day, my wife will not let me manage the checkbook.

My lack of basic math skills cannot be blamed on a teacher’s decision to allow students to use a calculator. This was a truth I thought an entire generation learned, back in the day when Texas Instruments stock still ruled the NYSE.

More importantly, as the years passed, I realized I did learn something in my geometry class.
What I learned, what stuck in my mind when the math did not, is an understanding of basic geometry as well as an organized manner of thinking that I put to great use when, as a philosophy major in college, I came across Augustine’s theorems. The basic building blocks of geometry allowed me to climb higher intellectually and learn more about the world and the people who live in it. In short, I may have struggled with the actual mechanics but the principles I learned have served me well.

Today, teachers like my geometry teacher are taking advantage of technology to help teach students principles of reading, writing, and math (what my father’s generation casually referred to as readin’, writin’, and ‘rithmatic). How could we learn to survive in a our modern world without computers in the classroom? How could we function with research aids like the internet? And, as unwilling as we are to admit it, how many computer games have inspired writing and other creative skills?

To blame technology for what may be nothing more than the evolution of language is not only short-sighted, but it’s actually a false theory. After all, the English we us in the best colleges and universities across the world is not the same English Dickens or Shakespear used. Languages, and language skills, evolve—just like technology.

And you don’t need a geometry class to understand that.

Yes, Girls’ Camp is usually a good thing. But not always.

This year I was invited to an evening dinner at Girls’ Camp. After driving a couple of hours, I arrived at a beautiful cabin overlooking a large pristine lake, surrounded on all sides by aspens and pines. The scene was truly picturesque, like something out of a landscape painting or a travel brochure.

As I stepped out of my CRV, I noticed the girls were wearing what appeared to be prom dresses. Approaching one of the leaders, a woman I’d met only once before, I asked why the girls were dressed up. She said it was part of the theme of the camp: after giving each of the girls the same amount of money, they all went to a thrift store where they purchased old prom dresses to wear for the evening gala. Fun, right!

It didn’t look like fun. It looked like a reality show gone bad, very bad.

I asked this woman why some of the girls weren’t so dressed up. She just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t want to participate.” Then she slipped off to mingle with a group of very thin, very pretty teenage girls.

Later in the evening, I sat visiting with a woman I knew, herself a talented musician, and I asked my question again. She looked at me for a moment and said, “Well, you don’t have a lot of choice if you’re not a size five.”

I was stunned. In a setting created for the sole purpose of reinforcing a young woman’s positive self image, some brainiac had managed to find a way to humiliate those without the perfect shape.
Like most acts of humiliation, I don’t imagine this one was intentional. Instead, it probably occurred—I hope—due to a lack of foresight rather than any real maliciousness. But malicious or not, I sat there, surrounded on all sides by real natural beauty, and watched as the girls moved and mingled in two separate but very distinct circles—one for those who managed to fit into pretty dresses and another for those that had to just make do.

And while the humiliation may not have been intentional, I doubt very seriously if it hurt any less.

*

My father was not a stable provider. There were times, even long periods of time, during my life that he failed to provide anything of value to my brother and I. Looking back, I don’t think those years were intentional. I think he was just a man with a problem he didn’t know how to fix.

Unfortunately, one of those times occurred when I was in high school. My high school had a dress code; this code required students wear slacks and dress shirts as opposed to jeans and t-shirts. Of course, such clothes cost money and if the money is not there…

At one point in my junior year, I owned no pants that didn’t have holes worn in the seat or the knees. I owned no shirts that weren’t falling apart at the seems. Since it was just my brother and I, we tried to repair the clothes as best we could, but often we just made a bad situation worse. Even years later, I recall the humiliation of being asked to leave school because my slacks were so worn out that my underwear was showing through the seat.

Another incident: my cousin, a pretty, popular young woman who studied ballet, was a year younger than I. Her family owned an electrical repair business and, as a result, were quite wealthy. One day, while passing between classes, I spotted her talking to a group of her friends, several other attractive and popular young women.

I don’t what I was thinking or expected. Maybe I was being a rebel; more likely I was looking for any kind of acceptance. As I approached I caught her eye and said hey.

All conversation stopped. She stared at me for a moment, then looked away. And after a moment, the group moved away from me and as they passed, I heard one girl ask my cousin, “Do you know him?”

She didn’t answer.

*

I survived high school and those young women who couldn’t find the perfect size five dress will survive Girls’ Camp. There will be tears, to be sure, and on some days—even years from now—the memories of this moment will still sting and burn. But they will survive.

Yet, there is a tragedy and it has nothing to do with dress sizes. It has to do with what could have been. It has to do with the fact that we only have a few opportunities to teach these girls before they’re off and running into an often cruel and terrible world, and then our moment to teach them is gone forever. What, then, is the most important lesson we can give them?

I doubt that it has to do with how to look good in a prom dress.

As I drove home in the dark, I realized Girls’ Camp was a success, for the lessons taught that night will not be forgotten any time soon.