One of the many things I learned in college is that I’m a Sand Nigger. Growing up in a multi-ethnic neighborhood in Western Pennsylvania, I’d heard my share of slurs, but not until my time at an institution of higher learning did I hear that appellation. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dickinson College was, and probably still is, very much a white, upper middle-class school. Many of the students at Dickinson didn’t have any use for anyone not like themselves, so that if you were ethnic, black, gay or otherwise non-standard, you could expect to be reminded of your outsider status from time to time.
Don’t get me wrong, Sand Niggers were several steps higher on the taxonomic ladder than ordinary Niggers, what the politically correct now call African-Americans. For the record, my mother’s family is Lebanese, and my father was half Polish and half Serbian, a combination that could only have occurred in Western Pennsylvania. I have the olive skin and (used to be) black hair of my mother’s people. From my father’s side of the family I got the Polish nose. The Serb is in there somewhere, but my appearance is definitely Arabic. I’m usually spotted by others of Lebanese descent, or the in-laws of other Lebanese. At Dickinson, I learned to dress and act like a respectable white, middle class American, but absent a Michael Jackson skin-bleach job, I look like what I look like. I never thought it was a big deal.
Then September 11th happened. I was in my office, talking with a supervisor when he got a call on his cell phone saying that terrorists had just flown an airplane into to World Trade Center. My initial reaction was that some nut had flown a Cessna into the tower, and aside from a small fire and a few casualties, there wouldn’t be much to it. Obviously, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was one of those ‘Where were you?’ moments. As in “Where were you when Kennedy was shot, when the Challenger exploded, or on a happier note, when Maz hit the home run? I was just over a year old when Maz hit the home run, I was in my office at the Beaver County Court House when the Challenger blew up, and I don’t know where I was when Kennedy was shot, but I do seem to remember my mother crying about the President being dead. I know I’ll never forget looking at Nick when his phone rang, and hearing about what Stephen Jay Gould would later describe as the real beginning of the 21st Century.
The rest of the day is mostly a haze. I remember telling my wife that “this is only the beginning,” and being irritated with a man in line in front of me at the gas station for his inability to operate a gas pump. I especially remember returning to the office after going out for a walk, or to St. Peter’s church to pray, I don’t remember which, and seeing a group of people in the lobby clustered outside a room containing a TV as they watched a tape of one of the towers collapsing. “We ought to put all the fucking Arabs in camps, like we did the Japs in World War II,” someone said. I didn’t ask anyone to define ‘we’, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it didn’t include me.
That sentence, spoken in anger and stupidity, had a profound effect on me. For the first time in my life, I was afraid. Not of anything in particular, but of being the victim of misdirected anger and violence. Everywhere I went, I thought I could feel people’s eyes on me. I imagined them thinking, “He’s one of them. Let’s do something about it.” It reached its nadir when I was in a meeting at work with a group of people I consider friends, and I still couldn’t make the fear go away. It drove me back to therapy. The therapist was understanding, but she almost lost patience at my response when she asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted a letter from President Bush assuring me that I wouldn’t be sent to an internment camp. I’m still waiting.
Eventually, I got over my fear, but in the process I learned some unsettling things about America, things I would rather not have learned. And I know, that when, God forbid, Osama and his savages strike again, I’ll have those same feelings. I’m not looking forward to it.
One of the things I inherited from my mother when she died was a set of her brother Henry’s wings. He was in the Air Corps during World War II. I think he was a crewman on a B-24. I know for certain he was a radio operator and a gunner. The wings are silver, and I polished them as September 11, 2002 drew near. They’re beautiful. I didn’t wear them; I don’t think that’s something I should do. Uncle Henry earned those wings, I didn’t. I did carry them with me all day, however. I like to think they protected me.
If you’re ever in London, go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. It contains a book with the names of all the Americans based in England who died during the war. One of those names is that of Henry Kanfoush, United States Army Air Corps.
I believe America is a construct of the mind. An idea, if you will. In spite of what I heard in my office on September 11, 2001, I am part of the American “We.” I’m part of the society that put Japanese Americans into internment camps during the second world war, and I am one of the Japanese Americans who spent the war in those internment camps. I am the Sand Nigger who lost his life in the skies over Europe all those years ago, and I am the man who planned to go underground in the fall of 2001 before the local constabulary came looking for me.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”
One of the distinguishing characteristics of America is its heterogeneity. There never was a clearly defined “We.” “We” changes daily. I’m part of that.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Be Yourself
I’m all for people being who and what they are. Here in America, we are relentlessly taught that we are ‘a nation of immigrants.” Of course, status seems to accrue to people whose ancestors have been here the longest (except to those we call “Native Americans”). So regardless of where in the world your ancestors came from, you are who you are. Personally, I am the child of a mother of Lebanese ancestry and a father who was half Polish and half Serbian. It’s a combination that could only happen in western Pennsylvania. Obviously, this line of thinking applies to religion, sexual orientation, political convictions, whatever. Be who and what you are. Accept it, then embrace it. Whoever, and whatever you are, chances are it’s pretty good. Run with it.
I respect smart people who know they’re smart, and to be a bit unkind, dumb people who realize they’re dumb. I can’t stand dumb people who think they’re smart. You know the type, people who use impressive sounding words they don’t know the meaning of, or who use them incorrectly. My favorites are people who don’t have a clue what they’re saying, but want you to believe they’re brilliant.
I used to work with such a person. She was of average intelligence, but was always eager to impress, which led her into some embarrassing moments. I was the Human Resources Manager at this company, and the woman I’m describing did a lot of data entry. She began to experience wrist pain, and sought medical care. So far, so good. At one point, she showed me the bottle that contained the medicine she was taking for inflammation. She was holding the bottle and told me she was taking 10 (Em Gees) twice a day. I thought she was stealing British sports cars, but when I looked at the bottle, I saw the dosage she was taking was 10 milligrams, twice a day. She didn’t know that “mg” is the abbreviation for milligram. So she took her ten Em Gees.
On another occasion, she asked about her eligibility for medical insurance. At the time she was on her husband’s plan. He worked at a local hospital. They were about to go through some staff cutbacks, commonly called lay-offs, or what we in the HR trade euphemistically call a Reduction In Force. No matter what you call it, some people are going to lose their jobs. She told me the hospital might be having a rift. I guess that means all the clinical people were going to stop speaking to the administrative types. When she said her husband might lose his job, I realized she meant to say RIF. I chuckled for days about that one.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m cruel to make fun of another person’s foibles. Perhaps I am. My rationalization is that it’s the pretentiousness I’m making fun of. Big picture, it doesn’t much matter if you don’t know the difference between a milligram and a Morris, or a rift and a RIF. Be who you are, not someone you aren’t. I promise, there will always be someone nearby to figure out that you’re faking it.
I respect smart people who know they’re smart, and to be a bit unkind, dumb people who realize they’re dumb. I can’t stand dumb people who think they’re smart. You know the type, people who use impressive sounding words they don’t know the meaning of, or who use them incorrectly. My favorites are people who don’t have a clue what they’re saying, but want you to believe they’re brilliant.
I used to work with such a person. She was of average intelligence, but was always eager to impress, which led her into some embarrassing moments. I was the Human Resources Manager at this company, and the woman I’m describing did a lot of data entry. She began to experience wrist pain, and sought medical care. So far, so good. At one point, she showed me the bottle that contained the medicine she was taking for inflammation. She was holding the bottle and told me she was taking 10 (Em Gees) twice a day. I thought she was stealing British sports cars, but when I looked at the bottle, I saw the dosage she was taking was 10 milligrams, twice a day. She didn’t know that “mg” is the abbreviation for milligram. So she took her ten Em Gees.
On another occasion, she asked about her eligibility for medical insurance. At the time she was on her husband’s plan. He worked at a local hospital. They were about to go through some staff cutbacks, commonly called lay-offs, or what we in the HR trade euphemistically call a Reduction In Force. No matter what you call it, some people are going to lose their jobs. She told me the hospital might be having a rift. I guess that means all the clinical people were going to stop speaking to the administrative types. When she said her husband might lose his job, I realized she meant to say RIF. I chuckled for days about that one.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m cruel to make fun of another person’s foibles. Perhaps I am. My rationalization is that it’s the pretentiousness I’m making fun of. Big picture, it doesn’t much matter if you don’t know the difference between a milligram and a Morris, or a rift and a RIF. Be who you are, not someone you aren’t. I promise, there will always be someone nearby to figure out that you’re faking it.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Tunnel Policies and Procedures
I live northwest of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and work to its southeast. This means I drive from my home in Beaver County to my place of employment in Munhall. To get to Munhall, I drive the Penn-Lincoln Parkway, known simply as The Parkway, on its western and eastern legs. The Parkway West reaches from the area around Pittsburgh International Airport to downtown. The Parkway East starts downtown, and heads toward the eastern suburbs.
The primary bottleneck on the Parkway West is just before the mouth of the Fort Pitt Tunnels. Just before the Tunnels, the two lanes of the Parkway join the two lanes of Banksville Road, which comes toward town out of the South Hills. The two right lanes become exits onto route 51, which runs perpendicular to the Parkway. The Tunnels accommodate two lanes of traffic, so one is faced with two lanes expanding into four, which in turn narrow down to two. This becomes a bit of an adventure when drivers in the rightmost lane want to get into the leftmost lane, and vice versa. Inevitably, people postpone their lane changes as long as possible, so there’s all sorts of jockeying for position in the last eighth or quarter mile before the entrance to the Tunnels.
I’ve only been doing this for almost two years now, and have noticed some tendencies, and unwritten rules. The first rule seems to be that like standing in line at the bank or supermarket, the lane you’re in is always moving more slowly than the others. I usually adopt a far left lane strategy, but there’s no guarantee the left lane will be the right choice on any day. It’s a bad idea to get behind a tractor-trailer. The drivers of those trucks are understandably cautious as they approach the Tunnels. They’re usually carrying a lot of weight down a slight grade, and they have to be on the lookout for rush hour drivers cutting in front of them. I’ve done it a time or two myself. It all adds up to tractor-trailers advancing toward the Tunnels slowly. If you’re in the first car behind one of them, you’ll move at the same pace.
The lane changes, from left to right and right to left are more interesting. Some people are aggressive, and simply throw their cars in the direction they want to go. I suppose they assume that if they’re reckless enough, people will get out of the way. Others, usually women, play for sympathy. They turn and look back toward oncoming traffic with a ‘please help me’ look on their faces and hope someone will be courteous to let them into their desired lane. Others resort to intimidation. Some turn and look mean, hoping they can scare people out of their way. Others use the mass of their vehicles as a threat, the ‘might makes right’ school of merging. If you’ve ever been in a Toyota Prius next to a Ford Excursion in traffic, you know what I mean.
I try to be courteous when I change lanes, using my signals and waiting for a gap in the line of cars. But I have been known to turn toward other drivers with f**k you eyes. Sometimes it’s fun to mess with somebody early in the morning.
I’ve also developed rules for whom I let into my lane of traffic. Drivers of Honda and Acura vehicles get first preference. Between my wife and me, we’ve owned six Hondas; we currently own three. Accordingly, anyone driving a Honda or Acura is family, after a fashion, so they get a certain level of consideration. BMWs and Audis also receive some courtesy, mainly because I like their cars. Someday, I may even be able to afford one of them. Pickup trucks in particular, and American vehicles in general, don’t stand much of a chance. American car manufacturers have done such a lousy job for so long, I don’t have any respect for them at all. I hear people whining about how every car General Motors builds contains $1500 in employee benefits, but guess what fellas? I don’t care. The reason American car manufacturers are losing market share is that their vehicles suck. American manufacturers just don’t get it. Their cars are poorly designed, use old technology, and drive like pigs. If/when an American manufacturer builds a car as good as my Hondas, I’ll consider buying it. I don’t expect it to happen soon. Here’s a news flash for the bean counters at GM. If you build good cars, people will buy them. And that employee benefits cost, which is a commitment you made to your employees, and are now trying to welsh on, won’t be an issue any longer. But I digress.
Pickup trucks are another bete noir of mine. At the hour of the morning when I’m on the road, the trucks are being driven by plumbers, roofers, carpenters and other working people on the way to their jobs. I respect working people. I’m a child of the working class myself. The problem comes in when the trucks they’re driving are often not their own. It’s too easy for a person to get careless when he’s driving the boss’s truck. If the truck is banged up, and has a bed full of tools rattling around, so much the worse.
If I see a pickup, or any vehicle flying the confederate battle flag, that driver has no chance of me allowing him/her to merge in front of me. I have this thing about ignorant rednecks, and whether they are ignorant northern rednecks or ignorant southern rednecks is immaterial. Anybody who thinks there was anything in the antebellum south worth celebrating, or even remembering is either a racist or delusional. Either way, he’ll not get waved into the space in front of me.
In fact, politics plays a part in whether a person gets waved into my lane. Anything that suggests a driver is a Republican means he doesn’t have a chance to be let into my lane. That applies even to Honda and Acura drivers, and a Santorum sticker is the kiss of death. I’ll go to extraordinary lengths to prevent a person sporting that kind of pornography from getting into my lane. Yes, I’ll cut him off, give him my best mean look, or even resort to the finger.
Cadillacs are at the bottom of the heap. I’ve always been of the opinion that Cadillac drivers think they own the road. And young people in Cadillacs give me the willys. And if that Cadillac is sporting a Bush/Cheney sticker? That’s when I wish I had a 105 mounted on top of the car.
The primary bottleneck on the Parkway West is just before the mouth of the Fort Pitt Tunnels. Just before the Tunnels, the two lanes of the Parkway join the two lanes of Banksville Road, which comes toward town out of the South Hills. The two right lanes become exits onto route 51, which runs perpendicular to the Parkway. The Tunnels accommodate two lanes of traffic, so one is faced with two lanes expanding into four, which in turn narrow down to two. This becomes a bit of an adventure when drivers in the rightmost lane want to get into the leftmost lane, and vice versa. Inevitably, people postpone their lane changes as long as possible, so there’s all sorts of jockeying for position in the last eighth or quarter mile before the entrance to the Tunnels.
I’ve only been doing this for almost two years now, and have noticed some tendencies, and unwritten rules. The first rule seems to be that like standing in line at the bank or supermarket, the lane you’re in is always moving more slowly than the others. I usually adopt a far left lane strategy, but there’s no guarantee the left lane will be the right choice on any day. It’s a bad idea to get behind a tractor-trailer. The drivers of those trucks are understandably cautious as they approach the Tunnels. They’re usually carrying a lot of weight down a slight grade, and they have to be on the lookout for rush hour drivers cutting in front of them. I’ve done it a time or two myself. It all adds up to tractor-trailers advancing toward the Tunnels slowly. If you’re in the first car behind one of them, you’ll move at the same pace.
The lane changes, from left to right and right to left are more interesting. Some people are aggressive, and simply throw their cars in the direction they want to go. I suppose they assume that if they’re reckless enough, people will get out of the way. Others, usually women, play for sympathy. They turn and look back toward oncoming traffic with a ‘please help me’ look on their faces and hope someone will be courteous to let them into their desired lane. Others resort to intimidation. Some turn and look mean, hoping they can scare people out of their way. Others use the mass of their vehicles as a threat, the ‘might makes right’ school of merging. If you’ve ever been in a Toyota Prius next to a Ford Excursion in traffic, you know what I mean.
I try to be courteous when I change lanes, using my signals and waiting for a gap in the line of cars. But I have been known to turn toward other drivers with f**k you eyes. Sometimes it’s fun to mess with somebody early in the morning.
I’ve also developed rules for whom I let into my lane of traffic. Drivers of Honda and Acura vehicles get first preference. Between my wife and me, we’ve owned six Hondas; we currently own three. Accordingly, anyone driving a Honda or Acura is family, after a fashion, so they get a certain level of consideration. BMWs and Audis also receive some courtesy, mainly because I like their cars. Someday, I may even be able to afford one of them. Pickup trucks in particular, and American vehicles in general, don’t stand much of a chance. American car manufacturers have done such a lousy job for so long, I don’t have any respect for them at all. I hear people whining about how every car General Motors builds contains $1500 in employee benefits, but guess what fellas? I don’t care. The reason American car manufacturers are losing market share is that their vehicles suck. American manufacturers just don’t get it. Their cars are poorly designed, use old technology, and drive like pigs. If/when an American manufacturer builds a car as good as my Hondas, I’ll consider buying it. I don’t expect it to happen soon. Here’s a news flash for the bean counters at GM. If you build good cars, people will buy them. And that employee benefits cost, which is a commitment you made to your employees, and are now trying to welsh on, won’t be an issue any longer. But I digress.
Pickup trucks are another bete noir of mine. At the hour of the morning when I’m on the road, the trucks are being driven by plumbers, roofers, carpenters and other working people on the way to their jobs. I respect working people. I’m a child of the working class myself. The problem comes in when the trucks they’re driving are often not their own. It’s too easy for a person to get careless when he’s driving the boss’s truck. If the truck is banged up, and has a bed full of tools rattling around, so much the worse.
If I see a pickup, or any vehicle flying the confederate battle flag, that driver has no chance of me allowing him/her to merge in front of me. I have this thing about ignorant rednecks, and whether they are ignorant northern rednecks or ignorant southern rednecks is immaterial. Anybody who thinks there was anything in the antebellum south worth celebrating, or even remembering is either a racist or delusional. Either way, he’ll not get waved into the space in front of me.
In fact, politics plays a part in whether a person gets waved into my lane. Anything that suggests a driver is a Republican means he doesn’t have a chance to be let into my lane. That applies even to Honda and Acura drivers, and a Santorum sticker is the kiss of death. I’ll go to extraordinary lengths to prevent a person sporting that kind of pornography from getting into my lane. Yes, I’ll cut him off, give him my best mean look, or even resort to the finger.
Cadillacs are at the bottom of the heap. I’ve always been of the opinion that Cadillac drivers think they own the road. And young people in Cadillacs give me the willys. And if that Cadillac is sporting a Bush/Cheney sticker? That’s when I wish I had a 105 mounted on top of the car.
Monday, May 28, 2007
How I Got To Be Mean Ed
I enrolled in West Virginia University for the fall term of 1982. I was in the Industrial Relations program, having earned my Bachelor's degree in English from Dickinson College in May 1981. I lived in Summit Hall, a dormitory that was not owned by the University, but "private." Most of the other folks on my floor were undergrads, seemingly all of them in Engineering, or Business. Not much respect for the Humanities there.
As it turned out, there were three guys named Ed on the floor. One was a long-hair. He played the guitar and was into Heavy Metal music. He and some other metalheads on the floor worshipped Randy Rhoads, who was Ozzy Osbourne's lead guitarist, until he died of stupdity while buzzing a house in a light airplane. He was known as Hippie Ed.
The second Ed was a guy from Long Island, who was on an ROTC Scholarship. Army Ed was a natural.
The third Ed was a surly son of a bitch. Mean Ed. Me.
Years later, I was at the wedding of my roommate, Mike, in the company of my then fiance', now wife. Apparently, I was being a bit too affectionate with her, because some of my friends from WVU came across the floor and officially stripped me of my title. But I like alliteration, so Mean Ed's Musings it is.
As it turned out, there were three guys named Ed on the floor. One was a long-hair. He played the guitar and was into Heavy Metal music. He and some other metalheads on the floor worshipped Randy Rhoads, who was Ozzy Osbourne's lead guitarist, until he died of stupdity while buzzing a house in a light airplane. He was known as Hippie Ed.
The second Ed was a guy from Long Island, who was on an ROTC Scholarship. Army Ed was a natural.
The third Ed was a surly son of a bitch. Mean Ed. Me.
Years later, I was at the wedding of my roommate, Mike, in the company of my then fiance', now wife. Apparently, I was being a bit too affectionate with her, because some of my friends from WVU came across the floor and officially stripped me of my title. But I like alliteration, so Mean Ed's Musings it is.
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